OnAPassin 
Frontier  m 


•RANK  B.  LINDERMAN 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


' 


DICK          FLOOD 

RAIL       SIDE       GALLERIES 
IDAHO        FALLS,         IDAHO 


On  a  Passing  Frontier 


4LLS  TRIBUNE 


Will  Write 
History  of 
Priests'  Work  j 

Frank  Guardipee  and 
Father  Seeking  Data 
On  Catholic  Missions 

GLACIER  PARK,  March  8.—  (Spe 
cial)  —  Frank  Guardipee  has  been 
chosen  to  write  a  history  of  Catholic 
priests'  activities  in  this  section,  this 
history  to  be  used  as  a  part  of  the 
centennial  of  Catholic  Indian  mis 
sions  to  be  celebrated  Aug.  27  at 
Stevensville,  where  the  priests  first 
entered  the  state. 

Guardipee's  father,  Eli,  aged  84, 
is  one  of  the  old-timers  of  this 
region  and  is  assisting  his  son  by 
furnishing  much  of  the  necessary 
information  and  by  guiding  him  to 
others  whom  he  thinks  may  have 
recollections  of  the  early  days. 

Guardipee,  a  park  ranger,  got  a 
leave  of  absence  from  his  duties 
some  time  ago  and  he  and  his  father 
have  been  making  trips  over  the 
state  and  in  southern  Alberta  col 
lecting  material. 

At  Cardston,  at  the  St.  Mary  Ro 
man  Catholic  mission,  they  inter 
viewed  a  father  who  has  been  with 
the  Blackf  eet  and  Blood  Indians  for 
43  years.  Also  in  that  vicinity  they 
got  information  from  two  Indians, 
aged  75  and  94. 

Last  week  they  were  in  Helena  in 
arch  of  material  at  the  state  his- 
rical  library  and  at  Carroll  college, 


On  a  Passing  Frontier 


Sketches  from  the  Northwest 


By 

Frank  B.  Linderman 


New  York 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1920 


LIBRARY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  May,  19*0 


I  DEDICATE  THESE   STORIES 

TO  THE   GOOD  TOWN   OF  MALTA 

AND  TO  THE   CAMPS   IN  THE   LITTLE   ROCKIES 

WHERE  THE   OLD  WEST   IS   MAKING 

ITS   LAST   STAND 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  FRIENDSHIP   ....  3 

WAS  CHET  SM ALLEY  HONEST?  ....  12 

THE  MEDICINE  KEG 24 

THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 38 

JAKE  HOOVER'S  PIG 50 

A  GUN  TRADE 58 

THE  WHISKEY  PEDDLER 66 

THE  POST-OFFICE  AT  WOLFTAIL     ...  74 

JEW  JAKE'S  MONTE 81 

AT  THE  BAR 90 

PAP'S  PINTO 103 

THE  BULLET'S  PROOF 115 

THE  INDIAN'S  GOD 121 

BRAVERY 127 

WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON      .     .     .     .  135 

CRANKS 177 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 195 


O,  dimming  trails  of  other  days, 

Your  lure,  your  glamour,  and  your  ways 

Will  last  while  those  who  knew  you  live, 

And,  fading,  to  the  past  will  give, 

To  guard  and  to  forever  hold, 

A  wealth  of  stories  never  told. 

The  winters  pass  and  take  their  toll; 

Where  tramped  the  bear  now  crawls  the  mole, 

And  grasses,  spurning  steps  so  light, 

Are  blotting  you  from  human  sight. 

The  same  winds  blow,  the  seasons  change, 

But  white  men's  ways  are  hard  and  strange; 

We  tread  on  ants,  and  lo !    'tis  thus 

Eternity  will  tread  on  us. 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

IT  was  years  ago  and  early  on  a  cold  morn 
ing  in  January.  Bill  Ropes  was  busy 
behind  the  bar  in  the  Silver  Dollar  polish 
ing  whiskey-glasses  with  a  linen  cloth.  At 
intervals  during  the  polishing  he  would 
hold  the  glasses  between  his  eyes  and  the 
light  of  young  day  that  came  in  over  the 
window-curtains  at  the  front  of  the  place. 
Bill,  wholly  free  from  care,  was  humming 
"The  Cow  Boy's  Lament,"  when  the  door 
was  opened  and  Bud  Tiley  came  in.  The 
visitor  did  not  offer  a  greeting,  but  seated 
himself  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room  and 
bowed  his  head.  His  hands  were  thrust 
deep  into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  at  a 
glance  the  accustomed  eye  of  Bill  recognized 
the  marks  of  a  past  and  protracted  spree. 
The  clock  behind  the  bar  struck  eight.  Its 

[3] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

tone  was  sepulchral.  The  man  in  the  chair 
stirred  nervously. 

"Mornin',  Buddy,"  said  Bill. 

"Morning"  growled  Bud. 

"Seems  like  a  nice  mornin',  Buddy. 
What's  wrong  ?  What's  botherin'  ? " 

"Lots.  A  plenty  is  botherin',  an'  I'm 
plumb  sick  of  the  game,  Bill.  I'm  goin'  to 
quit  it.  Jest  goin'  to  natcherly  lay  'em  down. 
Ye  won't  see  me  buckin'  agin  this  brace- 
game  of  life  no  more  after  to-day.  I'm 
goin'  to  blow  the  top  of  my  head  off.  Been 
thinkin'  it  over,  an'  I've  made  up  my  mind." 
He  had  been  staring  at  the  floor  as  he  spoke, 
and  concluding,  he  bent  forward  and  picked 
up  a  dime  that  some  careless  one  had  lost 
the  night  before;  then  contemptuously 
tossed  the  bit  of  silver  in  Bill's  direction. 
"Don't  belong  to  me,"  he  mumbled,  "an' 
I'll  never  need  it." 

"Goin'  to  kill  yerself,  Bud?"  asked  Bill, 
[4] 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

as  he  gave  a  glass  a  final,  extra  rub  with  the 
cloth. 

"Um-hu." 

"When?" 

"To-day." 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned.  Have  a  drink, 
Bud.  Come  on." 

The  melancholy  man  rose  hesitatingly 
from  his  chair  and  slouched  up  to  the  bar. 
Bill  set  out  the  bottle  and  the  glasses,  and 
Bud  poured  himself  a  liberal  portion  and 
drank  it  with  a  grimace. 

"Boo!  boo-ff!" 

"That's  the  best  whiskey  in  this  town," 
said  Bill. 

"Mebby,  but  it  tastes  like  hell  to  me." 

"That's  funny.  Say,"  and  Bill  leaned 
across  the  bar,  "I  don't  know  whether 
you've  ever  read  the  book  they  call  the  Bible 
or  not,  but  I  have.  I've  read  it  from  cover 
to  cover.  It's  as  plain  as  a  dog-town  would 

[5] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

be  on  Rockefeller's  lawn  that  if  you  kill  yer- 
self  or  anybody  else,  the  game  is  out.  There's 
no  harp  fer  you  over  there.  You're  out;  see, 
Bud  ? — out  fer  keeps.  I  hate  to  think  of 
that.  It  don't  seem  right,  hardly.  But  I 
can  fix  it.  I  won't  see  an  old  friend  shut 
out,  Bud.  Not  me."  He  lowered  his  voice 
and  looked  about  cautiously.  "I've  killed 
quite  a  few  men  in  my  life,"  he  whispered. 
"One  more  can't  make  no  difference  with 
me.  I  wouldn't  tell  it,  but  you'll  be  dead 
anj  can't  go  peddlin'  it  on  me,  see  ?  I  want 
to  help  you,  Bud,  an'  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do.  I'll  kill  you,  myself.  I  ain't  stuck  on 
it,  but  I'll  do  anything  I  can  fer  a  friend." 

"Will  ye,  Bill?" 

"Course.      Have     another    little    drink. 
This  one  will  taste  better'n  the  other." 

"Well,  Buddy,"  said  Bill  as  he  raised  his 
glass,  "here's  hopin'  the  job  turns  out  right 
an'  that  you  git  a  harp  over  there." 
[6] 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

They  drank,  and  then  Bill  pulled  out  a 
drawer  in  the  back-bar.  From  it  he  took  an 
old  Colt  .45  six-shooter  and  laid  the  weapon 
on  the  bar  before  Bud.  "Ain't  she  a  daisy  ? " 
he  asked.  "I  used  to  pack  that  when  I  was 
a  cow-puncher.  That's  the  old  gal  that  I 
got  my  men  with,  too.  An*  that's  why  I 
keep  her  here  where  she's  handy." 

"Looks  all  right,"  murmured  Bud.  "I 
don't  care  what  ye  use  so  long  as  it'll  do  the 
job  quick  an'  fer  keeps." 

Bill  stuck  the  gun  in  his  hip-pocket;  and 
his  coat  wrinkled  badly  where  it  fell  over  the 
weapon.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat.  "Come 
on,  Bud,"  he  said,  "if  ye're  determined  to 
die.  I  can't  fool  around  on  the  job.  'Twon't 
be  long  till  the  rush  will  be  on,  and  I  don't 
want  the  place  closed." 

"Where  ye  goin'?" 

"Well,  ye  don't  think  I'm  goin'  to  mess 
up  my  own  place,  do  ye  ?  Come  on." 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

Bud  fell  in  meekly  behind  Bill,  who  bent 
his  steps  to  the  river.  The  Missouri  was 
frozen,  and  Bill  tried  the  ice  gingerly  be 
fore  he  led  the  way  across;  then,  gaining  the 
farther  shore,  entered  a  deserted  cabin. 

A  half-breed  had  built  it  years  before  and 
had  gone  his  way.  A  hole  had  been  cut 
through  the  pole-roof  to  allow  a  stovepipe 
to  vent  itself  in  the  open  air,  and  through 
the  hole  the  wind  was  sifting  the  dry  snow 
that  clung  to  the  roof  about  it. 

"Here  we  are,  Buddy.  Nice  an'  quiet,  an' 
no  visitors.  But  there  ain't  no  great  hurry 
now  we're  here.  Set  down,  Buddy,  set 
down/' 

Bill  seated  himself  on  an  empty  candle- 
box  under  the  hole  in  the  roof.  Bud  settled 
beside  him.  They  had  closed  the  rickety 
door,  and  there  were  no  windows.  The  day 
light  that  found  its  way  through  the  stove 
pipe  hole  fell  upon  the  pair  like  a  benediction. 

[o    "I 
Q       I 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

"Bud,"  said  Bill,  "I've  got  to  fix  this  job 
up  so  it'll  look  like  suicide.  I  can't  afford 
to  have  'em  houndin'  me  fer  murder." 

"Shore,  shore,  Bill.  I  know.  Any  way 
suits  me.  Do  it  yer  own  way." 

"Of  course  God  A'mighty  will  know  you 
didn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  it,  Bud — see  ?" 

"Um-hu." 

"Well,  let's  have  one  more  little  drink." 
And  Bill  drew  a  half-pint  from  his  pocket. 

Bud  took  a  healthy  pull  at  the  flask  and 
passed  it  back  to  Bill,  who  also  drank;  but 
not  so  greedily.  Returning  the  flask  to  his 
pocket,  Bill  produced  the  six-shooter  and 
laid  it  in  his  lap.  "I'm  gettin'  chilly,  ain't 
you,  Bud?" 

"Um-hu." 

"Well,  I  guess  we  might's  well  deal  the 
last  card,  unless  ye've  changed  yer  mind." 

"I  ain't." 

"Git  over  there  agin  the  wall  then — right 

[9] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

over  there  where  the  bark  is  peeled  off  that 
log.  The  light  is  better  there — Turn  a-round! 
Ye  don't  suppose  I  want  to  look  a  man  in  the 
eyes  when  I  kill  him,  do  ye  ?  Thought  ye 
had  better  sense." 

Meekly  Bud  turned  his  face  to  the  logs. 
"Stretch  out  yer  arms! — That's  it,  but  yer 
left  arm's  a  foot  lower'n  yer  right.  I'd  hit 
you  in  the  guts.  Raise  it  a  little,  so  I  can 
plug  yer  heart.  Higher !  Higher  yet ! 
There!  That's  bully.  Now,  stand  per 
fectly  still,  Bud.  This  light  ain't  none  too 
good.  It  won't  take  but  a  second.  This 
old  gun  tears  awful.  A  cat  could  jump 
through  the  hole  it  makes  an'  never  touch 


meat." 


He  cocked  the  six-shooter.  Its  sharp- 
clicking  lock  filled  the  cabin  with  sound. 
In  a  flash  Bud  wheeled. 

"Don't  shoot,  ye  damned  fool !    I  believe 
ye  would  of  killed  me  like  a  dog." 
[  10] 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

Without  a  word,  Bill  led  the  way  back 
across  the  Missouri  and  to  the  saloon.  As 
they  entered,  Piano  Joe  fell  in  with  them. 
Bill  nudged  him  with  his  elbow,  and,  sensing 
that  the  saloon  man  had  something  of  a 
private  nature  to  impart,  Piano  Joe  followed 
to  the  far  end  of  the  bar,  where  he  heard  the 
story. 

"Joe,"  said  Bill,  "you  talk  about  callin'  a 
bluff.  Never  again  for  me.  I  thought  I'd 
have  to  kill  that  fool  as  sure  as  hell.  It 
looked  as  though  he  wasn't  goin'  to  weaken. 
Let's  all  have  a  drink." 

Bud  joined  them,  but  after  drinking  whis 
pered  : 

"Joe,  can  I  speak  to  ye  a  minute  ?" 

He  led  the  way  to  the  other  end  of  the  bar, 
and  using  his  hand  to  keep  his  voice  from 
reaching  Bill,  who  eyed  them  suspiciously,  he 
whispered:  "That  man  Ropes  is  a  murderer 
at  heart,  Joe.  Remember  that," 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

"OPEAKING  of  honesty,"  '»<*  an  archi- 
^  tect  friend  of  mine,  "I  have  found  that 
standards  differ  and  that  men  are  honest  ac 
cording  to  their  own  ideas  as  to  what  con 
stitutes  honesty.  Perhaps  no  man  has  the 
right  to  define  honesty  for  another,  but— 


"When  I  had  finished  school,  I  went  to 
Havre,  and  after  spending  some  time  in 
measuring  the  town's  prospects,  I  hung  out 
my  sign.  Then  I  watted.  Weeks  went  by. 
I  was  growing  anxious  for  a  commission  of 
some  kind,  great  or  small,  for  not  only  were 
my  funds  running  low,  but  I  was  becoming 
stale, 

"1  was  even  thinking  of  moving  to  a  larger, 
older  town  one  afternoon  when  a  pony 
stopped  in  front  of  my  office,  A  man  got 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

down  and  read  my  sign.  Then  he  came  in. 
He  was  a  cow-puncher.  He  had  what  I 
have  called  since  then  'the  typical  cow-face,' 
and,  even  as  a  tenderfoot,  I  could  see  that 
he  was  a  top  hand  at  the  game. 

"'Howdy/ he  said. 

"'Very  well,  I  thank  you.  How  are  you 
to-day?' 

"Tm  fine.  Are  you  the  man  that  draws 
pictures  an'  plans  fer  buildin's  ? ' 

"'Yes,  I  am  an  architect.  I  can  make 
plans  for  any  building  you  would  want,'  I 
told  him. 

"'Well,  I've  rode  up  to  see  ye.  Heared 
ye  was  in  town.  It's  this  a-way.  We're 
a-goin'  to  build  us  a  schoolhouse  down  to 
Lindale,  an'  it's  goin'  to  be  a  reg'lar  tepee, 
too.  She's  goin'  to  cost  ten  thousand  dol 
lars.' 

"He  paused  in  order  to  allow  the  figures 
to  sink  in.  Then  he  said: 

[13] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"'I'm  chairman  of  the  board  an'  what  I 
say  goes.  How  would  ye  like  the  job  of 
buildin'  that  shack,  son  ?' 

"'I  would  be  delighted.  I  think  I  can 
give  you  perfect  satisfaction,  too,'  I  told  him. 
'When  do  you  let  the  contract  ?' 

'"Right  away,  but  givin'  satisfaction  ain't 
enough.  What's  in  it  fer  me  if  I  let  ye  go 
ahead  ?  Satisfaction  won't  buy  whiskey.' 

"I  thought  he  was  joking,  but  when  I 
looked  at  him,  I  knew  that  he  was  in  earnest. 
I  had  a  high  regard  for  my  profession. 
Anger  seized  me,  and  I  cried:  'Get  out! 
Get  out  of  this  office !  I  am  not  that  kind 
of  an  architect.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to 
you.' 

"His  eyes  expressed  surprise.  'Well,  well,' 
he  said  as  he  began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  'No 
great  harm  done  to  ask  ye,  is  there  ?  Don't 
git  yer  tail  over  the  dashboard,  son.' 

"He  lighted  his  cigarette  and  went  out. 

[  HI 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

I  watched  him  mount  his  pony  and  ride 
away. 

"Not  long  afterward  I  heard  that  the 
schoolhouse  was  going  to  be  built  in  Lindale 
just  as  he  had  told  me.  I  learned,  too,  that 
the  cow-man's  name  was  Chet  Smalley 
and  that  he  was  the  chairman  of  the  board 
that  had  the  contract  to  let.  I  got  busy, 
and  through  my  own  efforts  and  a  little  pull 
I  obtained  on  the  side,  I  got  the  contract. 

"I  wasn't  at  all  afraid  of  Smalley.  I  had 
something  on  him,  you  see.  If  he  had  inter 
fered,  I  would  have  shown  him  up  to  the 
other  members  of  the  board,  but  he  was 
pleasant  to  meet  and  did  not  offer  an  objec 
tion  of  any  kind.  He  never  mentioned  his 
visit  to  my  office  in  Havre  throughout  my 
entire  stay  in  Lindale — and  I  was  there  for 
a  long  time. 

"As  the  schoolhouse  was  nearing  com 
pletion,  a  woman  came  to  see  me.  She 

[  is] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

wanted  me  to  build  a  small  cottage  for  her. 
I  found  that  I  could  use  some  material  I  had 
on  hand,  and  after  a  little  figuring,  I  told  her 
that  the  house,  as  she  had  planned  it,  would 
cost  her  fifteen  hundred  dollars. 

"'All  right,'  she  said,  'but  I  can  pay  you 
only  seven  hundred  dollars  now.  As  soon 
as  my  husband's  estate  is  settled,  though,  I 
will  pay  you  the  rest.  If  that  is  satisfactory, 
you  may  go  ahead.' 

"I  went  to  the  bank.  They  said  that  the 
woman's  finances  were  all  right.  So  I  built 
the  cottage.  It  was  finished  almost  as  soon 
as  the  school  building.  When  I  turned  the 
cottage  over  to  the  woman,  we  went  to  the 
bank  together.  She  drew  seven  hundred 
dollars  in  cash.  As  the  man  counted  it  out, 
I  noticed  that  the  currency  had  never  been 
in  use  before.  It  was  fresh,  crisp,  and  new. 
The  bills  had  never  been  folded  and  the 
banker  tucked  them  into  a  large  manilla 
t  16] 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

envelope.  I  stuck  it  into  my  inside  coat 
pocket  and  took  the  train  for  Havre 
within  ten  minutes  after  we  had  left  the 
bank. 

"You  see,  I  was  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  my  future  wife  was  expecting  me  there 
that  afternoon.  We  were  to  dine  early  at 
a  favorite  restaurant  and  then  go  out  for 
the  evening.  She  met  me  at  the  station, 
and  we  went  directly  to  the  restaurant  as  we 
had  planned. 

"I  had  drawn  some  plans  for  a  little  house, 
and  I  spread  them  upon  the  table.  My 
fiancee  and  I  became  engrossed  in  a  change 
she  had  proposed.  It  was  the  kitchen,  of 
course.  ...  It  generally  is  the  kitchen. 
.  .  .  And  I  was  making  notes  that  would 
enable  me  to  alter  things  to  suit  her,  when  the 
waiter  who  was  serving  our  table  bent  over 
me  and  whispered: 

"'There's  a  man  out  there  that  wants  to 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

see  you.  He  seems  in  a  big  hurry.  What 
shall  I  tell  him?' 

"Til  go  out  and  see  him/  I  said;  and  I 
went. 

"It  was  Chet  Smalley. 

"'What  did  you  want?'  I  asked,  feeling 
that  the  man  intended  to  insist  upon  a  com 
mission  on  the  work  I  had  done. 

"'Wanted  to  see  ye,  private,  fer  a  minute 
if  ye  kin  git  away/ 

"'I  can't  leave/  I  told  him.  'I  have  a 
lady  with  me.  I  shall  be  here  an  hour,  at 
least/ 

"'All  right/  he  replied.  Til  meet  ye  next 
door  in  an  hour.  I  got  to  see  ye.  Will  ye 
be  there?' 

'"Yes/  I  said,  and  hated  myself  for  not 
turning  him  down  then  and  there. 

"He  went  out,  and  I  went  back  to  my 
dinner.  When  we  had  finished  eating,  I 
excused  myself  and  went  into  the  saloon 
[  18] 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

which  was  next  door,  and  found  my  man 
waiting  patiently. 

"'What  is  it  you  want  ?'  I  demanded. 

'"Well,  ye  see,  I  come  up  from  Lindale  to 
lay  in  some  supplies  an'  I  went  a  little 
stronger  than  I  thought.  I've  run  out  of 
money.  Won't  ye  let  me  hev  two  hundred 
dollars  till  I  git  straightened  out  ?' 

"His  voice  carried  an  appeal  that  got  me, 
somehow.  Two  hundred  dollars  was  a  pile 
of  money  to  me  then,  and  I  knew  that  the 
man  wasn't  honest;  but  I  was  young,  and 
'no'  was  hard  to  say.  I  had  the  seven  hun 
dred  dollars  in  my  pocket.  We  had  walked 
back  to  a  card-table.  The  place  was  not 
well  lighted,  and  I  drew  the  envelope  from 
my  pocket  with  a  quick  look  over  my  shoul 
der.  Smalley  saw  the  new,  crisp  bills.  He, 
too,  looked  over  his  shoulder  apprehensively 
and  said  in  a  whisper:  'Say,  son,  they  all 
know  me  here.  Give  me  a  check,  can't  ye  ? 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

It  would  be  different  if  I  was  a  plumb 
stranger/ 

"Then  I  knew  what  was  troubling  him. 
I  would  carry  it  on. 

"'No,'  I  said.  'I  have  no  bank  account. 
I  can't  give  you  a  check.  These  bills  are 
dry  and  look  fine,'  and  I  rubbed  one  with  a 
finger  and  showed  him  that  no  color  came  off. 

"'I  know,'  he  whispered.  'But  they  all 
know  me.  Can't  ye ' 

"'No.' 

'"Well,  I'm  game.     Count  'em  out.' 

"I  did.  He  took  the  money  and  went 
away.  I  didn't  see  him  for  two  months. 

"One  day  I  went  to  Lindale  for  a  settle 
ment  and  I  saw  Chet.  'When  ye're  through 
talkin ','  he  said,  '  I  want  to  see  ye  a  minute. 
Come  over  to  Lem's  place.' 

"All  right,  I  will  be  over  in  ten  minutes.' 
I  was  curious  to  learn  what  Chet  would 
say. 

[20] 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

"I  found  him  waiting  for  me.  He  led 
me  back  to  a  small  card-room  and  shut  the 
door.  'Set  down/  he  said,  and  chuckled. 

"I  sat  down,  and  he  produced  a  roll  of 
tattered  bills  from  his  pocket  and  counted 
me  out  two  hundred  dollars  in  real,  old,  and 
tried  money.  As  he  shoved  it  across  to  me, 
he  said:  Tin  a  liar  if  those  dubs  in  Havre 
didn't  take  that  money  you  give  me  without 
battin'  an  eye.  I  jest  paid  'em,  an*  they 
took  it  like  it  was  all  right/ 

"I  didn't  tell  him  that  it  was  all  right. 
Somehow,  I  couldn't  spoil  the  joke;  so  I 
took  my  two  hundred  dollars  and  went  back 
to  Havre,  squared  up. 

"My  wife  and  I  were  married  soon  after. 
I  had  built  the  little  home,  too.  One  night 
my  wife  wakened  me.  'There's  somebody 
on  the  porch,'  she  said. 

"'Go  to  sleep,'  I  told  her.  'There's  no 
body  on  the  porch.  You've  been  dreaming.' 
f  21  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"'I  have  not/  she  persisted.  'Get  up 
and  see  who  it  is.* 

"I  got  up.  When  I  went  into  the  living- 
room,  I  pressed  the  button  at  the  switch  for 
the  porch  light.  I  was  close  to  the  door. 
'Put  that  light  out,'  some  one  said  in  a  cau 
tious  voice. 

"I  put  it  out,  and  opened  the  door. 

"In  walked  the  hardest  looker  I  have  ever 
seen.  He  handed  me  a  note.  It  read : 

DEAR 

This  old  timer  is  in  trubbel.  His  rope  was  too 
long  an  hes  bin  workin  over  some  brands,  rustle 
him  a  good  hoss  sos  he  kin  git  acrost  the  line.  Do 
it  quick  and  oblije 

y°urs  CHET. 

"I  put  the  fellow  out  and  told  him  to  shift 
for  himself.     When  I  went  upstairs,  I  told  the 
whole  story  to  my  wife.     I  was  worried. 
"When  morning  comes,  you  take  the  first 

[22] 


WAS  CHET  SMALLEY  HONEST? 

train  for  Lindale  and  tell  that  man  Smalley 
that  it  wasn't  counterfeit  money,  or  he'll  get 
us  both  into  jail  for  something/  she  said." 


[23] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 

a  bitter  cold  night  in  January,  1879, 
Joe  Bent  stood  before  the  fireplace  in 
the  trading-post  on  the  old  Whoop-up  trail, 
and  listened  to  the  whistling  of  the  wind. 
He  was  worried,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  cheerful  blaze  before  him  as  though  he 
expected  counsel  from  its  light. 

Three  hours  before  sundown  thirty  lodges 
of  Blackfeet  had  trailed  into  the  little  valley 
and  camped  three  miles  from  the  post.  Joe 
had  watched  them  coming  before  a  threaten 
ing  storm.  It  was  even  then  spitting  snow, 
and  the  wind  was  shifting  about  to  the  point 
where  the  northern  blizzards  await  its  call. 
The  coming  storm  had  caused  the  squaws  to 
hurry  the  laden  ponies  over  the  frozen 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


ground;  and  for  a  mile  the  trail  had  been 
crowded  with  loose  ponies,  pack-animals,  and 
travois.  Joe's  practised  eyes  had  formed  an 
estimate  of  the  prime  robes  the  packs  might 
contain.  But  he  was  worried. 

The  Indians  had  camped  in  a  grove  of 
cottonwoods.  Order  had  come  out  of  the 
hurrying  mass  of  people  and  ponies,  and  now 
thirty  lodges  sent  their  smoke  away  on  the 
bitter  wind. 

The  day  was  nearly  done  when  Joe  turned 
back  to  the  post  after  watching  the  coming 
of  the  Blackfeet.  Although  he  and  his 
partner  had  obtained  the  good  will  of  both 
them  and  the  Crees,  he  wished  that  they 
had  not  come.  For  his  partner,  Pete  Le- 
beau,  a  Canadian  Frenchman,  had  gone  to 
Fort  Benton.  They  had  not  expected  the 
Indians  until  a  month  later,  and  so  the  trip 
had  been  agreed  to. 

The  post  was  small  and  there  was  no  stock- 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

ade  to  protect  it  from  attack.  When  trad 
ing  was  going  on  in  the  little  store,  which 
was  much  like  others  of  its  day,  one  or  the 
other  of  the  partners  sat  back  of  a  partition 
of  logs  in  which  a  narrow  loophole  had  been 
cut,  with  a  double-barrelled,  sawed-off  shot 
gun  loaded  with  buckshot.  From  this  van 
tage-point  the  gunman  could  sweep  the  room 
if  trouble  started,  and  at  the  same  time  pro 
tect  the  goods  and  the  man  behind  the 
counter. 

Most  of  the  stock  of  goods  was  piled  neatly 
along  the  walls  back  of  the  partition.  Be 
sides  the  lawful  articles  of  trade,  the  room 
contained  a  barrel  of  whiskey  which  had  been 
raised  up  well  toward  the  roof,  and  from 
which  a  small  pipe  led  down  through  the 
puncheon  floor. 

On  the  store  side  of  the  partition,  and  in 
plain  sight  of  customers,  a  cut  from  a  fir 
log  served  as  a  resting-place  for  a  half-gallon 
[26] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


keg,  which  was  securely  fastened  to  the 
rustic  pedestal.  The  pedestal  itself  was 
made  fast  to  the  floor,  and  none  but  the 
partners  knew  that  the  pipe  from  the  barrel 
in  the  back  room  turned  after  passing  through 
the  floor  and  from  the  under  side  reached  up 
through  the  cut  of  wood  that  so  innocently 
supported  the  tiny  keg;  so  that,  syphon-like, 
the  barrel  continually  fed  the  keg  as  a  foun 
tain  fills  a  cup.  The  plan  was  clever.  No 
one  suspected  that  there  was  more  whiskey 
in  the  post  than  was  contained  in  the  tiny 
keg  in  plain  sight  on  the  store  side  of  the 
partition. 

Joe  was  making  ready  for  trading  by  mov 
ing  more  of  the  stock  back  of  the  partition 
and  was  spreading  some  bright  blankets  for 
display,  when  Red  Wolf  and  two  other  In 
dians  opened  the  door  and  came  in. 

Joe  invited  them  to  smoke.  Then  he 
lighted  a  candle,  for  it  was  growing  dark, 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

and  filled  four  quart  bottles  from  the  keg 
in  the  room.  These  he  presented  to  the 
Indians  with  the  request  that  the  fourth 
bottle  be  given  to  the  chief  and  the  contents 
of  the  others  divided  among  the  men  of  the 
camp.  Then  he  gave  them  some  tobacco 
and  bade  them  good-night. 

As  he  closed  and  barred  the  door  he  be 
came  troubled,  especially  over  his  giving 
them  the  liquor,  and  more  than  ever  did  he 
wish  he  were  not  alone.  The  storm  had 
grown  violent,  and  the  night  promised  to  be 
a  hard  one  for  those  who  were  unprepared. 
After  a  time,  in  the  firelight,  his  misgivings 
faded  and  he  began  to  smile  at  the  blazing 
logs  and  to  heed  the  battle  of  the  elements 
outside.  Snow  was  sifting  through  a  loop 
hole,  and  he  crossed  the  room  to  stop  the 
opening  with  a  rag.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  fire.  Smilingly  he  drew  forth  a  blazing 
brand  and  lit  his  pipe. 

[28] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


An  hour  later  he  turned  in  and  from  his 
bed  watched  the  flickering  shadows  dance 
about  the  whiskey-keg  like  drunken  demons. 
The  logs  in  the  walls  cracked  and  popped  as 
the  frost  pierced  them  to  the  very  heart; 
and  once  when  the  wind  was  low,  he  heard 
a  gray  wolf  howl  near  the  door.  When  the 
fire  had  burned  down,  Joe  pulled  the  blanket 
tight  about  him  and  turned  over  to  sleep. 

In  a  painted  skin  lodge  three  miles  away 
Red  Wolf  sat  near  his  fire.  About  him  his 
family  slept  peacefully,  for  the  creaking  of 
the  straining  lodge-poles  disturbed  them  not. 
Snow,  driven  by  the  wind,  rattled  against 
the  great  lodge  like  handfuls  of  shot  against 
a  pine  board,  but  the  Indian  did  not  hear, 
for  he  was  absorbed  in  other  things.  Before 
him,  in  the  firelight,  were  two  camp  kettles, 
one  empty  and  the  other  full  of  water.  The 
empty  kettle  was  of  the  half-gallon  variety. 

[29] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

Carefully  Red  Wolf  filled  a  quart  bottle 
with  the  water  and  then  poured  its  contents 
into  the  small  empty  kettle,  being  extremely 
careful  not  to  spill  a  drop.  Once  more  he 
filled  the  bottle  and  again  emptied  it  into  the 
half-gallon  kettle,  which  was  now  almost  full 
— so  full  that  less  than  half  a  bottle  of 
water  would  have  overflowed  the  vessel. 
Then  he,  too,  filled  his  pipe,  and  in  a  very 
thoughtful  mood,  drew  forth  a  blazing  brand 
from  the  lodge  fire  and  lit  the  tobacco  and 
red-willow  bark.  Many  times  he  had  made 
the  experiment,  and  he  was  thinking  now  of 
the  little  keg  at  the  trading-post.  Yes,  two 
bottles  was  all  the  keg  should  hold;  and  Red 
Wolf  had  seen  four  quart  bottles  filled  from 
the  keg  in  ten  minutes.  Unless  he  was  mis 
taken,  the  one  at  the  post  was  a  "medicine 
keg,"  a  "magical  keg,"  and  could  never  be 
emptied.  But  when  the  morning  came,  he 
would  find  out — he  would  see.  After  his 
[30] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


pipe  was  finished,  like  the  trader,  Red  Wolf 
slept. 

When  Joe  awoke  the  wind  was  still. 
Down  through  the  adobe  chimney  the  day 
light  fell  upon  the  dead  ashes  in  the  great 
fireplace,  and  the  ventilators  admitted  addi 
tional  proof  that  the  night  had  passed.  He 
built  a  fire  and  while  the  blaze  grew  in 
strength,  unbarred  and  opened  wide  the 
door.  The  snow  was  drifted  about  the  post, 
and  not  far  from  the  door  he  saw  the  tracks 
of  the  wolf  leading  away  across  the  drifts. 
For  short  spaces  the  tracks  had  been  obliter 
ated  by  the  wind;  then  they  were  visible 
again. 

After  breakfast  he  busied  himself  by  bal 
ing  some  buffalo  robes  purchased  since  Le- 
beau's  departure,  and  had  almost  completed 
the  task  when  in  the  doorway  Red  Wolf 
appeared. 

131 1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"How,"  greeted  the  Indian. 

"How,  how,"  returned  Joe,  and  Red  Wolf 
entered  the  place  without  further  ceremony. 
The  Indian  squatted  before  the  fireplace, 
producing  his  pipe,  which  he  filled  and  lighted 
with  that  ease  and  grace  known  only  to  the 
original  American;  and  proceeded  with  true 
ceremony  to  enjoy  a  smoke. 

Near  the  open  door  a  pinto  pony  stood 
patiently  in  the  snow,  his  steam-like  breath 
enveloping  him  in  a  mist  that  blended  his 
form  into  the  snow-drifts  and  the  sparkling, 
glittering  shower  of  frost  crystals  that  fil 
tered  down  with  the  sunbeams. 

Joe  paid  no  further  attention  to  his  visitor 
until  the  latter  had  finished  smoking  and 
from  his  Hudson  Bay  capote  had  drawn 
forth  a  quart  bottle  and  pointed  to  the  keg. 

"Two  robes,"  said  Joe  in  Blackfoot. 

The  Indian  slipped  through  the  door,  re 
turning  with  the  price  of  the  purchase,  which 
he  laid  on  the  counter.  Then,  taking  the 
[  32] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


bottle  of  whiskey,  he  rode  away  through 
the  snow. 

Joe  had  just  returned  from  the  room  be 
hind  the  partition  when  Beaver  Tail,  a 
brother  of  Red  Wolf,  entered  the  store. 
The  Indian  traded  two  robes  for  a  quart  of 
whiskey  and  at  once  mounted  his  pony  and 
returned  to  the  camp.  Joe  took  the  robes 
and  carried  them  into  the  other  room. 
When  he  came  out  Standing  Bear  was  in  the 
store.  He  was  a  surly  fellow,  and  Joe  had 
never  liked  him.  He  was  older  than  Red  Wolf 
and  was  reputed  to  be  quarrelsome.  But 
he  smiled  at  the  trader  as  he  offered  two  fine 
robes  for  a  quart  from  the  tiny  keg.  Then 
he  rode  away  with  the  bottle  as  the  others 
had  done. 

Joe  followed  his  customer  to  the  door  and 
was  watching  the  pony  plough  through  the 
snow  drifts  when  he  saw  another  rider  com 
ing  toward  the  post  from  the  camp.  He 
was  leading  a  pack-animal.  As  they  passed 
[  33  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

each  other  Standing  Bear  held  up  the  bottle 
of  whiskey,  but  neither  rider  halted  until 
the  man  with  the  pack-horse  paused  before 
the  open  door  of  the  store.  It  was  Red 
Wolf,  and  he  was  singing  merrily  as  he  dis 
mounted. 

"How  {"greeted  Joe. 

"How,  how,"  returned  the  Indian — who 
entered  the  store  at  once.  He  walked 
straight  to  the  whiskey-keg  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  it.  "How  much  ?"  he  asked. 

"Two  robes,  one  bottle,"  replied  Joe. 

"No,  no,"  said  Red  Wolf,  tapping  the  keg 
anxiously.  "How  much  ?  Heap  Big  Medi 
cine.  Always  stay  full.  Never  get  empty. 
How  much  ? " 

Joe  saw  that  trouble  was  not  far  off,  but 
he  said  in  Blackfoot:  "That  is  not  a  Medi 
cine  Keg.  It  will  get  empty.  It  will  not 
stay  full.  I  cannot  sell  the  keg.  I  have  no 
more  whiskey  to  trade.  It  is  gone  now ." 

[34] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


Red  Wolf  was  not  to  be  put  off.  "Heap 
Big  Medicine.  How  much  ? " 

Joe  turned  and  took  a  fine  red  blanket 
from  the  shelves  and  offered  it  to  Red  Wolf, 
who  indignantly  refused  the  gift.  He  slapped 
the  keg  angrily.  "How  much?"  he  de 
manded.  His  eyes  were  snapping  fire. 

"The  keg  is  not  all  mine.  Lebeau  owns 
one  half.  I  cannot  sell  it  until  he  comes 
back,"  said  Joe.  "When  he  comes  I  will 
ask  him  how  much." 

"You  sell  us  tobacco  when  Lebeau  is 
gone,"  said  Red  Wolf  bitterly.  "You  sell 
us  the  whiskey  and  blankets  when  he  is 
away.  If  Lebeau  owns  one  half  of  the  keg, 
he  must  own  half  of  the  whiskey  and  the 
tobacco  and  the  blankets.  How  much?" 

"I  can't  sell  the  keg." 

"Ten  robes,"  urged  Red  Wolf. 

"No." 

"Twenty  robes,"  pleaded  the  Indian. 

[35] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"No." 

"Twenty  robes,  ten  horses." 

"No." 

"  How  much  ?  "  Red  Wolf  was  breathing 
heavily.  He  advanced  a  step  toward  the 
trader.  His  eyes  glimmered  with  the  light 
of  battle.  "How  much?"  he  cried  as  he 
jerked  a  knife  from  his  belt. 

Joe  sprang  backward  and  drew  his  six- 
shooter.  Red  Wolf  slashed  at  him  with  the 
knife.  Joe  bent  his  body  to  avoid  the 
flashing  blade,  and  his  back  touched  the  logs 
of  the  wall.  He  fired. 

Red  Wolf  fell  dead  at  his  feet. 

Joe  gazed  at  the  form  on  the  floor  and,  in  a 
daze,  saw  the  powder-smoke  float  across  the 
room  to  the  fireplace,  where  it  was  drawn  up 
and  away  by  the  draught  of  the  great  chim 
ney.  Then  rousing  himself  from  his  stupor, 
he  shut  and  barred  the  door. 

The  action  brought  back  his  wits,  and  pick- 

[36] 


THE  MEDICINE  KEG 


ing  up  the  axe  he  went  into  the  back  room, 
where  with  a  blow  he  broke  the  pipe  connec 
tion  to  the  whiskey  barrel.  The  fiery  liquor 
spattered  about  the  place.  It  crept  under 
the  partition  and  down  along  the  hewed  poles 
of  the  puncheon  floor  toward  the  open  fire, 
filling  the  room  with  its  fumes  as  it  came. 

Grabbing  a  buffalo  overcoat,  his  rifle,  and 
a  heavy  Hudson  Bay  blanket,  Joe  unbarred 
and  opened  the  door.  As  it  swung  with  a 
creak  on  its  wooden  hinges,  admitting  the 
fresh  air,  a  flash  of  flame  enveloped  the  room. 
The  whiskey  had  been  ignited.  The  store 
was  afire. 

Joe  rushed  from  the  place  and  mounted 
Red  Wolfs  pony,  looking  for  an  instant 
toward  the  Blackfeet  camp.  Not  an  Indian 
was  in  sight. 

Then  he  turned  the  pony  toward  Fort 
Benton  and  rode  away. 

[37] 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 


'nr^HE  Blackfeet  were  dancing  a  Throw- 
•*•  Away  Dance.  Every  warrior  must 
discard  some  valuable  possession  —  something 
that  would  make  its  loss  felt  to  the  owner 
after  it  had  been  thrown  away  —  ere  he  could 
enter  the  dance. 

It  was  in  June.  The  tender  grass  that 
covered  the  plains  waved  in  the  gentlest  of 
evening  breezes.  With  it  there  came  to  the 
dance  from  the  banks  of  the  Marias  River, 
that  sweetest  of  perfumes,  the  breath  of 
wild  roses. 

The  moon  was  well  up  in  the  sky  when  the 
fire  was  kindled  in  the  Blackfeet  village.  A 
crier  rode  out  from  it  to  call: 

"All  who  would  sacrifice;  all  who  would 
show  that  they  are  free-hearted;  all  who  have 

[38  1 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 

horses  or  robes  they  would  throw  away — 
come  from  your  lodges.  Come  to  the  Throw- 
Away  Dance  of  our  people ! " 

Throughout  the  village  rode  the  crier, 
pausing  at  intervals  to  give  his  invitation. 
There  was  no  variation  in  the  monotonous, 
chanted  message,  nor  any  demonstration 
on  the  part  of  those  yet  within  their  lodges. 
If  they  heard  they  gave  no  sign. 

But  when,  finally,  the  crier  returned  to 
the  fire,  the  drums  began  their  weird,  mea 
sured  beating,  and  some  singers  raised  their 
voices  in  strange  song. 

Then  came  the  dancers,  followed  by  most 
of  the  people  in  the  village.  Those  who  were 
the  onlookers  formed  a  large  circle  about 
the  fire,  and  into  the  centre  near  the  fire 
stepped  several  young  warriors. 

Some  of  them  threw  away  favorite  buffalo 
horses.  Others  cast  off  painted  robes  upon 
which  much  work  had  been  spent.  Trinkets 

[39] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

of  all  descriptions  that  cover  savage  finery 
were  tossed  aside  by  the  owners  as  they 
entered  the  dance,  and  as  each  made  his 
sacrifice  he  spoke  to  the  onlookers,  telling 
of  the  virtues  and  blessings  the  property  he 
was  now  discarding  had  brought  to  him. 
Often  the  speaker  would  enlarge  upon  the 
value  of  the  goods  or  chattels  thrown  away, 
and  some  of  the  dancers  were  humorous  in 
their  allusions  to  their  discarded  property. 

Whenever  a  warrior  entered  the  circle  of 
dancers  the  drums  ceased  their  cadence, 
and  the  singers  were  silent  while  the  brave 
made  his  sacrifice  and  his  speech.  Each 
newcomer  aroused  the  curiosity  of  the  watch 
ers  who  expectantly  awaited  the  words  that 
described  the  extent  of  his  voluntary  loss. 

Then  at  the  conclusion  of  his  speaking 
the  dance  would  be  promptly  resumed  with 
the  additional  performer,  anxious  to  show 
his  talents  and  grace  of  movements. 

[40] 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 

Twenty  young  men  had  entered,  and 
twenty  sacrifices  had  been  made  when,  no 
more  offering  to  join  the  revel,  the  dance 
grew  mad  and  wild.  The  drums  set  the  time 
faster  and  yet  faster.  Yips  and  yells  rent 
the  night  as  the  performers  stepped  to  the 
savage  music,  and  bent  their  forms  nearly 
to  the  ground  in  grotesque  contortions. 

Perspiration  stood  out  on  their  foreheads 
and  glistened  in  the  firelight  on  their  naked 
bodies,  when  suddenly  the  drums  ceased. 
There  was  a  murmur  among  the  people. 
"It  is  the  Sleeping  Wolf,"  they  whispered. 

It  was  so.  Sleeping  Wolf,  their  greatest 
warrior,  the  pride  of  the  village,  had  entered 
the  circle — had  come  to  the  dance.  What 
would  he  throw  away  ?  Ah  !  it  would  be  a 
real  sacrifice  that  the  Sleeping  Wolf  would 
make.  Listen,  he  speaks.  S-h-h  ! 

"Two  snows  have  passed  since  we  fought 
our  enemy,  the  Crows.  We  beat  them 
[41  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

badly  and  took  many  scalps.  We  also  took 
several  women  from  our  enemies,  the  Crow 
people.  One  was  very  beautiful.  She  be 
longed  to  White  Badger.  But  we  gambled 
for  her,  and  I  won  her  from  him.  I  made 
her  my  wife  with  the  others.  She  is  young. 
She  is  beautiful.  But  I  throw  her  away." 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  people.  A 
burning  log  fell  from  its  place  in  the  fire  and 
a  fountain  of  red  sparks  spread  fan-like 
toward  the  sky  as  Sleeping  Wolfs  eyes  swept 
the  circle  of  onlookers.  Pointing  his  finger 
at  a  comely  young  woman  who  sat  across  the 
fire  with  a  group  of  her  friends,  he  cried: 

"Little  Bird!  Crow  woman!  I  throw 
you  away!  I  do  not  want  you  longer! 
Never  come  to  my  lodge  again !  I  have 
spoken." 

To-tum,  to-tum,  to-tum — the  dance  was 
instantly  resumed,  and  the  light  of  a  wild 
thing  at  bay  came  into  the  black  eyes  of 

[42] 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 

Little  Bird.  She  brushed  her  face  with  her 
hand  as  if  to  dispel  a  bad  dream.  Then  she 
arose  and  faced  the  group  of  women  about 
her.  She  was  young — the  youngest  among 
them — and,  scorned  by  the  man  who  had 
taken  her  to  wife,  she  turned  to  her  house 
hold  companions  for  pity,  for  sympathy; 
but  did  not  find  it.  The  sneer  she  saw  on 
the  lips  of  Weasel-Woman,  the  first  wife  of 
Sleeping  Wolf — the  one  who  sits  beside  him 
— maddened  her.  She  turned  away  from 
the  fire,  from  the  dance;  and  with  her 
face  toward  the  land  of  the  Crows  disap 
peared  into  the  night. 

She  heard  the  drums  and  the  cries  of  the 
dancing  Blackfeet — the  hated  Blackfeet,  as 
she  sped  away  under  the  moon.  Wolves, 
like  gray  shadows,  skulked  ahead  of  her 
and  upon  either  side.  She  did  not  care 
what  might  be  behind.  There  was  enough, 
and  she  despised  it — hated  it. 

[43] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

The  sounds  in  the  village  were  growing 
fainter  and  fainter,  but,  scorning  a  backward 
glance  lest  the  moon  believe  that  a  Crow 
had  been  humbled  by  the  hated  tribe,  and 
mayhap,  too,  the  wolves,  Little  Bird  ran, 
walked,  and  ran  again  until  the  sun  came. 
Then  she  hid  away  in  some  bushes  that  grew 
in  a  deep  coulee  not  far  from  the  great 
Missouri. 

Hate  had  spurred  her  footsteps,  and  she 
was  impatiently  awaiting  the  coming  of 
another  night  that  she  might  renew  her  flight 
to  the  land  of  the  Crows,  her  own  people. 
She  would  tell  them  all — tell  her  brother, 
Mad  Bear — how  her  husband  had  scorned 
her  before  the  hated  tribe. 

Great  fluffy  clouds  floated  over  her;  and 
once  a  swift-fox  came  very  close  without 
suspecting  her  hiding-place,  as,  nursing  her 
anger,  Little  Bird,  the  Crow  woman,  wished 
for  the  dusk. 

[44] 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 

When  at  last  the  sun  had  gone  and  the 
twilight  began  to  lay  its  hands  upon  the 
world  she  ventured  out.  She  was  without 
food,  and  her  moccasins  were  old.  They 
were  going  fast,  but  her  wound  was  deep, 
and  she  minded  neither  hunger  nor  half- 
naked  feet.  So,  throughout  the  night  she 
travelled;  and  sometimes,  even  after  so  long 
a  time,  her  thoughts  lashed  her  into  running. 
When  morning  broke  she  was  far  from  the 
Blackfeet  village,  but  yet  farther  from  the 
Crows  who  were  near  the  mouth  of  Elk 
River.  She  dug  some  roots  and  ate  them. 
Then  she  bathed  her  tired  feet  in  the  river 
before  hiding  away  to  rest  and  wait  for  an 
other  night. 

At  noon,  when  the  sun  was  hot,  she  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  high  knoll  in  the  breaks  of  the 
Missouri  to  look  about.  They  might  follow 
her.  She  would  see  if  they  were  coming  to 
take  her  back.  She  was  cautious,  and  it 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

was  long  before  she  raised  herself  to  look 
backward.  No — there  was  nothing  save 
some  herds  of  buffalo  on  the  plains  to  west 
ward — not  a  living,  moving  thing.  She 
turned  her  face  toward  the  east.  Yes ! — 
there  were  objects  far  away.  They  were  not 
buffalo,  but  they  were  so  far  off  that  Little 
Bird  could  not  tell  if  they  lived  and  moved. 
She  broke  a  branch  from  a  sage-brush  and 
stuck  it  into  the  ground.  Then  she  stretched 
herself  upon  the  hilltop,  and  sighting  the 
suspicious  objects  over  the  stick,  she  watched 
them  breathlessly  a  moment.  They  were 
moving !  They  were  horsemen !  She 
watched  and  waited  there  in  the  sunlight 
until  the  day  was  old. 

At  last  she  could  see  them  plainly.  It  was 
a  war-party,  and  they  were  Crows.  They 
had  turned  toward  the  river  at  sundown 
where  she  knew  they  would  camp  for  the 
night.  She  was  not  afraid  now.  She  made 

[46] 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 

her  way  to  the  bank  of  the  stream,  and 
stumbling  in  her  eagerness,  sought  the  hid 
ing-place  of  the  war-party. 

Before  dark  Little  Bird  was  in  the  camp. 
Her  brother,  Mad  Bear,  was  chief  of  the 
braves  there.  Her  revenge  was  at  hand. 
Breathlessly  she  told  of  her  life  in  the 
Blackfeet  village,  of  her  marriage  to  Sleep 
ing  Wolf,  of  her  daily  treatment  and  final 
disgrace. 

"I  will  go  with  you,  brother,"  she  cried. 
"Oh,  let  me  go  with  you,  my  brother.  I 
will  lead  you  to  the  village.  I,  myself,  will 
enter  the  lodge  of  Sleeping  Wolf,  though  he 
bade  me  never  to  come  there  again.  Come, 
let  us  go  now  while  the  night  is  young,  for 
my  heart  will  be  upon  the  ground  until  the 
Sleeping  Wolf  dies — dies !  Come,  we  can 
camp  when  it  is  morning  and  find  the  Black- 
feet  in  the  dark  of  another  night." 

So  they  started.  And  near  the  end  of 
[471 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

another  night  Little  Bird  showed  them  the 
village. 

"Give  me  your  gun,  brother.  I  know 
where  the  fine  horses  are,  and  I  will  stampede 
them  all.  I  will  go  among  them  in  the  dark, 
and  they  will  stampede  easily.  Then  I 
will" — her  voice  trembled  with  rage — "then 
I  will  return.  Hold  my  horse  until  I  come 
back." 

Mad  Bear  stationed  his  men  to  await  the 
stampede  of  the  horses.  Little  Bird  took 
the  gun  and  the  darkness  hid  her.  She 
crept  into  the  Blackfeet  camp.  The  dogs 
knew  her  and  did  not  break  the  silence. 
Carefully,  lest  she  startle  a  horse  before  her 
errand  was  done,  she  stole  to  the  lodge  of 
Sleeping  Wolf.  How  well  she  knew  it  even 
in  the  dark  of  night !  She  paused  to  listen 
at  the  door.  A  horse  whinnied  in  the  rope 
corral,  and  the  wind  sighed  in  the  tops  of 
the  lodge  poles. 

[48] 


THE  THROW-AWAY  DANCE 

Little  Bird  raised  the  door  gently — the 
door  of  her  rightful  home.  The  deep, 
measured  breathing  of  those  within  told  of 
sleep — deep  sleep.  She  entered  like  a  shad 
ow,  and  crossing  the  fireplace  that  marked 
the  centre  of  the  lodge,  stood  beside  his 
sleeping  form. 

Pointing  the  gun  at  his  face  she  whispered : 
"Sleeping  Wolf,  Sleeping  Wolf,  I  have  come 
back.  The  Crow  woman  has  come  to " 

The  warrior  sat  up.  There  was  a  blinding 
flash  that  lighted  the  lodge  for  a  second,  and 
the  roar  of  the  flintlock  started  a  hundred 
warriors  from  their  beds.  Dogs  began  to 
howl,  and  women  wailed  in  the  darkness. 
Men  hurried  to  the  lodge  of  Sleeping  Wolf. 

But  he  was  dead,  and  Little  Bird  was 
gone.  So,  too,  were  many  horses. 


49 


JAKE  HOOVER'S  PIG 

"  TT'S  funny  lots  of  men  deny  sentiment,*' 

A  said  Charley  Russel,  "but  I've  found 
more  of  it  in  those  that  denied  it  than  in 
others  who  advertised  themselves  as  suffer 
ing  with  an  overburden  of  that  virtue. 

"A  man  don't  look  for  a  lot  of  sentiment 
in  a  trapper.  I  mean  when  it  applies  to 
the  life  and  welfare  of  wild  animals.  Some 
times  it's  there,  just  the  same. 

"When  I  was  a  kid  I  threw  in  with  old 
Jake  Hoover.  Jake  was  a  trapper — a  skin- 
hunter,  and  killed  deer,  elk,  and  antelope 
for  the  market.  His  cabin  was  in  Pig  Eye 
Basin  over  in  the  Judith  country,  and  you 
could  see  deer  from  the  door  of  the  shack 
'most  any  day. 

"The  old  man  would  never  kill  a  deer 
that  stuck  about  the  place,  and  I've  seen  the 
[50] 


JAKE  HOOVER'S  PIG 


time  when  there  wasn't  enough  grub  in  the 
camp  to  bait  a  mousetrap,  too,  yet  Jake 
would  no  more  think  of  killing  one  of  the 
deer  that  hung  around  there  than  he  would 
of  taking  a  shot  at  me.  Squirrels  and  birds 
were  friends  of  his  at  all  times,  and  he  often 
fed  them. 

"One  spring  a  ranchman  traded  Jake  a 
small  pig  for  some  elk  meat,  and  Jake  took 
the  pig  to  camp.  He  was  little  and  cute,  and 
a  nuisance  about  the  place  till  Jake  finally 
made  a  pen  for  him.  Grain  was  scarce,  of 
course,  in  those  days,  and  we  had  to  rustle 
to  feed  that  confounded  rooter.  But  when 
ever  either  of  us  could  land  on  a  sack  of 
wheat  we  got  it. 

"Eat !  well  I  guess  so.  And  grow !  Say ! 
that  pig  just  seemed  to  swell  up  over  night. 
He  was  a  great  pet.  When  Jake  would  go 
to  the  pen  with  food,  he'd  rub  Jake's  legs 
with  his  head  while  the  old  fellow  would 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

scratch  his  back  and  pet  him.  Let  him  out, 
and  he'd  trail  after  Jake  all  day  like  a  dog. 
Sometimes  we  had  to  ride  forty  or  fifty  miles 
to  get  grain.  And  money,  well,  we  didn't 
have  any,  but  managed  to  trade  meat  for 
wheat  when  we  found  it. 

"Jake  would  look  at  the  pig  and  say:  ' Kid, 
won't  he  make  fine  eatin'  this  fall  ?  He's 
fat  as  a  fool  an'  big  enough  to  kill  right  now, 
but  we'll  wait  till  the  cold  weather  comes, 
an'  then,  Zowie  !  we'll  bat  him  with  the  axe. 
We'll  have  grease  enough  to  last  us  till 
spring.  I'm  glad  I  got  him.' 

"One  day  he  got  out  of  the  pen.  We  had 
gone  hunting.  Of  course  the  cabin  door  was 
open,  and  the  pig  went  inside.  We  were 
gone  two  days.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
that  shack  when  we  got  back. 

She  never  was  very  tidy,  but  the  pig  had 
found  the  flour  and  the  syrup  and  the  dried 
apples.  Jake's  best  blanket  was  on  the 

[52] 


JAKE  HOOVER'S  PIG 


floor,  and  it  had  been  walloped  around  in  the 
mess  for  hours.  A  million  flies  had  moved 
in,  too,  an'  every  sticky  spot  on  the  blanket 
was  black  with  them.  We  were  within  ten 
feet  of  the  door  when  crash  !  went  the  dish- 
pan. 

"That  was  when  Jake  cocked  his  rifle  and 
whispered :  '  Bear !  Look  out,  Kid/ 

"He  slipped  up  to  the  door,  and  I  was  be 
hind  him  as  he  poked  the  barrel  of  his  Win 
chester  inside.  Then  he  began  to  swear. 

"From  the  middle  of  the  damnedest  wreck 
you  ever  saw  that  fool  pig  raised  his  head 
in  welcome.  He  was  a  black  pig,  and  flour 
and  syrup  had  gummed  his  face  until  it  was 
white.  His  eyes  were  ringed  all  around  an* 
you'd  have  sworn  he  had  on  a  pair  of  gog 
gles.  You  know  the  way  the  dried  apples 
used  to  come,  in  a  box  ? — Well,  a  round  slice 
with  a  hole  in  its  centre  had  stuck  fast  to 
his  forehead. 

[53] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"The  pig  was  real  glad  to  see  us,  an* 
showed  it,  but  Jake  was  mad. 

"'That  settles  it.  You  die.  You  won't 
see  the  leaves  turn  yeller,  either.  You'll  be 
bacon,  ye —  Look  at  my  blanket,  Kid.' 

"I  was  dying  to  laugh,  but  I  was  afraid 
to.  Jake  might  go  to  war  if  I  did. 

"We  cleaned  out  the  shack,  and  that 
night  we  got  ready  for  the  killing.  Jake  got 
up  before  daylight  and  built  a  fire. 

"'I'm  afraid  it's  too  warm  to  kill  that  pig 
yet,  Kid,'  he  said  as  I  pulled  on  my  boots. 
'It's  too  early  in  the  season,  an'  we  can't 
afford  to  lose  the  meat  after  all  the  hell  we've 
had  with  him.  Guess  we'll  wait  a  spell. 
Besides,  we've  got  a  little  wheat  left  an'  there 
wouldn't  be  nothin'  to  feed  it  to.  You  bet 
I  won't  never  have  another.' 

"So  the  pig's  time  was  extended.  I  felt 
rather  glad,  for  I  sort  of  liked  him,  even  if  he 
was  a  nuisance. 

[54] 


JAKE  HOOVER'S  PIG 


"But  the  wheat  disappeared  at  last,  and 
we  had  to  make  another  rustle.  'It's  the 
last  time,'  said  Jake.  'I'm  plumb  sick  of  the 
contract,  an*  as  soon's  this  sack  is  gone — 
Zowie  !  we'll  bat  him.  It's  comin'  to  him, 
ain't  it?' 

"'Sure  is,' I  told  him. 

"The  weather  was  growing  sharp  when  the 
last  of  the  wheat  was  dished  out.  'In  the 
mornin'  we'll  kill  him,'  said  Jake.  Til  feed 
him  to-night  an'  bust  his  head  in  the  mornin'/ 
He  sharpened  his  knives  and  talked  of  the 
feast  all  the  evening,  but  I  didn't  like  to 
think  of  the  pig  at  all. 

"Jake  turned  out  early.  As  soon  as  he 
got  his  boots  on  he  took  his  knives,  an  axe, 
and  the  camp  kettle  he  had  always  used  to 
feed  the  pig,  and  said:  'Come  on,  Kid,  an' 
we'll  git  rid  of  that  dirty  skunk  before  we 
eat.  I  jest  can't  put  it  off  no  longer. 
Wheat's  all  gone,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  ridin'  like 

tssi 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

a  madman  to  find  feed  for  a  dirty  hawg  no 
more.' 

"We  started  for  the  pig-pen.  A  pine 
squirrel  ran  down  a  fir  tree  and  came  to 
meet  us.  Jake  kicked  at  him.  'This  place 
is  plumb  overrun  with  damned  nuisances/ 
he  said,  an'  stepped  over  into  the  pen. 

"The  pig  was  tickled  to  see  him  and  be 
gan  rubbing  his  nose  on  his  legs.  'Get  out, 
damn  ye,'  he  cried.  'Get  away  from  me! 
This  ain't  no  friendly  errand.  Here,  Kid, 
smash  him  while  I  git  some  water  heatin.' 

"'Not  by  a  damn  sight,'  I  said.  'He 
ain't  my  pig.' 

"Oh,  come  on,  Kid.  He's  knowed  me 
ever  since  he  was  a  little  feller.  We  need 
the  meat,  an'  the  wheat's  all  gone.' 

'"Can't  help  it,'  I  said.  'I  didn't  bring 
him  here,  and  I  won't  kill  him.' 

"Jake  leaned  the  axe  against  the  pen. 
'Why,  he's  nothin'  but  a  hawg,  an'  a  low- 
down  one  at  that.  Look  at  my  blanket.' 

[56] 


JAKE  HOOVER'S  PIG 


' '  Can't  help  it,  Jake.  I  can't  kill  him,  and 
I  won't.' 

"He  turned  back  to  the  cabin.  I  saw  him 
come  out  with  his  Winchester.  He  climbed 
up  the  hill,  and  I  walked  away  from  the  pen. 
A  half  hour  went  by  before  the  pig,  wonder 
ing  why  he  had  not  been  fed,  turned  around. 

"Bang! 

"The  pet  was  no  more.  A  bullet  had 
entered  his  brain.  Jake  came  down  the 
hill,  leaned  his  rifle  against  a  tree,  and  cut 
the  pig's  throat. 

"'I  don't  reckon  he  saw  me  er  knowed 
who  done  it,  do  you,  Kid  ? '  he  said  in  a 
low  voice  that  shook  a  trifle." 


l57l 


A  GUN  TRADE 

PULLED  an  old  ivory-handled  six- 
-••  shooter  from  its  scabbard  in  Charley 
Russel's  studio  one  morning.  I  tried  its 
lock,  for  I  always  loved  the  click  of  an  old- 
time  Colt  .45.  It  wouldn't  stand  cocked. 
The  "dog"  had  been  worn  out. 

Charley  was  busy  with  a  canvas,  and  as 
I  stuck  the  gun  back  into  its  scabbard  I 
said: 

"That  gun  has  seen  better  days." 

"Yep,"  he  replied,  squatting  in  a  chair 
before  his  easel. 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  I  came  by  that 
gun  ?  No  ?  Well,  it  was  the  crookedest 
deal  I  ever  made.  I  was  pretty  much  of  a 
kid  then.  My  brother  and  another  fellow 
were  camped  in  the  Basin  an'  I  was  wranglin' 
hosses  for  the  Bear  Paw  Pool  outfit. 

[58] 


A  GUN  TRADE 


"One  day  I  rode  over  to  see  my  brother, 
an'  hanging  from  an  antelope's  horns  near 
the  door  of  the  cabin  I  saw  a  six-shooter 
in  a  brand-new  scabbard.  The  sunlight 
streamed  in  through  the  open  door  an*  fell 
full  on  the  butt  of  the  gun.  All  the  colors 
of  a  fire-opal  were  holding  a  carnival  on  that 
six-shooter's  butt.  It  was  mother-of-pearl. 
Wow !  I  was  stuck  for  keeps  at  its  beauty. 
There  was  nobody  in  the  shack,  and  I  pulled 
the  gun  from  the  scabbard.  It  was  silver- 
plated  and  all  chased  with  leaves  and  vines 
in  gold.  My  heart  went  out  to  that  beauti 
ful  gun,  an'  I  fondled  it,  cocked  it,  and  bal 
anced  it,  with  a  longing  to  own  it  myself. 

"I  grew  suddenly  cunning.  I  shoved  the 
gun  back  into  its  scabbard  just  as  I  heard 
my  brother  coming  around  the  corner  of  the 
shack. 

"'How!'  he  said.  'Where'd  you  come 
from?' 

[59] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"I  just   rode  over.     Been   here   quite   a 
while,    though.     Some    shack    you've    got. 
An'  hello  !   a  new  gun  ! '  I  said. 
"Um-hu/  he  answered. 

"I  examined  the  gun  again,  pretending 
it  was  a  new  discovery.  'Some  butt  on  that 
gun/  I  said  as  carelessly  as  I  could,  returning 
it  to  its  scabbard.  'Where'd  you  get  it  ?' 

"'Sent  back  to  the  States  for  it  last  month. 
Hungry  ? ' 

"'Yep.' 

"I'll  cook  something/  he  said,  an*  went 
out  into  the  other  room. 

"I  followed  him. 

"How'll  you  trade  guns  ?5  I  asked. 
"What  you  got?'  he  said,  as  he  cut  a 
steak  from  the  ham  of  an  antelope  and  laid 
it  on  the  table. 

"I  had  just  bought  a  good  Colt  .45.  It 
was  blued  and  clean  as  a  wolf's  tooth,  too. 
I  pulled  it,  and  he  took  it  from  me. 

[60] 


A  GUN  TRADE 


"'It's  brand-new/  I  told  him,  'and  dead 
centre.' 

"He  handed  it  back  and  cut  another  steak 
from  the  antelope  meat.  'Oh,  I  don't 
know,'  he  said,  with  the  air  of  a  father  about 
to  give  something  to  his  youngest,  'my  gun's 
a  heap  of  trouble.  All  fancy.  An'  you're 
a  kid.  If  you  are  dead  stuck  on  that  gun 
I'll  trade  even.  I'm  polishing  and  cleaning 
that  weapon  from  morning  till  night.' 

"'Even!'  Say!  I  changed  guns  and 
scabbards  so  quick  I  got  the  new  one  on  my 
belt  wrong  side  to.  My  brother  put  the 
meat  in  a  frying-pan,  and  I  turned  toward 
the  door. 

"There  was  an  old  tomato  can  setting 
about  thirty  yards  from  the  cabin,  and  I 
thought:  Til  just  try  my  beauty.'  I  was 
standing  in  the  doorway  when  I  pulled  down 
on  the  can. 

"Bow! 

[61] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  top  of  the  door- 
jamb  stopping  that  gun  it  would  have  rared 
back  far  enough  to  split  my  scalp.  Roar! 
Say !  my  ears  were  ringing  like  church  bells 
in  town  on  Sunday  and  I'd  never  touched 
the  scenery,  let  alone  the  can. 

"I  looked  at  the  gun.  One  side  of  the 
shiny  cylinder  was  all  smoky.  I  tried  to 
cock  the  thing.  It  was  stuck.  Then  I  saw  a 
shaving  of  lead  as  thick  as  a  slice  of  bacon 
wedged  in  between  the  cylinder  and  the 
barrel.  They  wouldn't  track — simply  didn't 
line  up,  and  the  bullets  had  to  turn  a  corner 
to  get  out.  Every  bullet  that  ever  left 
that  gun  would  be  a  cripple,  an'  nothing  else 
would  be  in  danger  except  the  man  that 
pulled  the  trigger.  I  was  stuck  good  and 
plenty,  but  I  didn't  whisper.  I  poked  the 
fool  thing  into  the  scabbard  and  went  back 
to  where  my  brother  was  frying  the  meat. 
He  was  grinning.  Maybe  he  was  laughing 
aloud,  but  I  couldn't  hear  him — not  yet. 

[62] 


A  GUN  TRADE 


"We  had  dinner,  but  he  didn't  mention 
the  trade.  Neither  did  I,  but  said  'antiose' 
pretty  quick,  and  drifted. 

"In  the  Gap  I  saw  a  rider  coming.  It  was 
Bill  Deaton.  I  got  the  sun  to  cutting 
capers  on  that  mother-of-pearl  before  I  got 
close  up,  and  he  says,  'Hello,  Kid.  God! 
that's  some  barker  ye  got  there.  Let's  see 
her.' 

"I  handed  it  out. 

"'Say!  She's  fancy.  Where'd  you  get 
it?' 

"I  thought  if  my  brother's  yarn  was  strong 
enough  to  hook  me  it  might  tangle  Bill,  so 
I  said:  'Oh,  sent  back  to  the  States  for  it  a 
month  ago.' 

'"Pretty  as  a  white-faced  heifer,'  he  said, 
as  he  balanced  my  gun  in  his  hand.  'That 
butt  would  make  jewelry,  wouldn't  it,  Kid — 
jewelry  for  a  lady,  by  God.' 

'"Sure  would,'  I  said,  but  didn't  tell  him 
that  'twas  all  it  was  good  for. 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"'How'll  ye  trade,  Kid?' 

"'Oh,  I  don't  know.  What  you  got?' 
I  asked,  and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  I 
didn't  have  any  meat  to  cut,  so  I  made  a 
smoke  to  show  I  wasn't  overly  interested. 

"This,'  he  answered,  handing  out  that 
gun  you  were  looking  at.  It  was  new  then, 
and  as  good  as  they  made  them. 

"'Oh,  if  you're  dead  stuck  on  that  gun  of 
mine,'  I  said,  Til  trade  even  up.  I'm  tired 
of  rubbing  her  up  and  polishing  her.'  That 
was,  as  near  as  I  could  remember,  what  my 
brother  had  said  while  he  cut  the  meat. 

"He  snapped  at  the  proposition  as  a  trout 
grabs  a  fly.  I  rode  on,  and  I  didn't  ride  slow 
either.  I  was  afraid  Bill  might  change  his 
mind.  I'd  drifted  down  into  a  coulee  when 
I  heard  Bow  !  Bill  was  trying  his  new  gun. 
I  used  my  spurs,  and  that  cayuse  was  just 
touching  the  landscape  in  spots  when  I  got 
into  camp. 


A  GUN  TRADE 


"I  didn't  see  Bill  till  the  fall  roundup. 
He'd  been  in  camp  a  week,  but  he  had  never 
mentioned  the  trade.  Neither  had  I.  One 
night  around  the  fire  my  curiosity  got  the 
upper  hand  and  I  asked:  'What  did  you  ever 
do  with  that  gun  I  traded  you,  Bill  ?' 

"'Just  what  you  did,  you  crook,'  he  said, 
as  he  tossed  his  cigarette  into  the  fire — 'jest 
what  you  did;  an'  I'm  hidin'  out  ever  since.' 

"'Ever  shoot  it  ?'  I  asked. 

"'Once,'  he  said,  'jest  once.  She  knocked 
both  me  an'  the  pony  down.  That  gun  must 
have  come  as  a  prize  with  bakin'  sody.'" 


THE  WHISKEY  PEDDLER 


P^WO  horsemen  met  just  over  the  Cana- 
-*•  dian  line  north  of  Cutbank,  Mon 
tana,  in  May,  1886.  One  of  them  wore  the 
uniform  of  an  officer  in  the  Northwest 
Mounted  Police.  The  other  was  a  plains 
man  from  this  side. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do,  Cap.  I'll  cut 
it  up  with  ye.  Leave  the  trail  open,  an* 
every  time  I  git  through  with  a  pack  I'll 
divide.  I'll  be  on  the  square  with  ye,  an' 
all  I  ask  is  that  ye  leave  that  there  trail 
open;  my  trail,  I  mean.  I'll  take  my 
chances  with  the  rest  of  the  police  in  other 
places.  You  can  give  me  the  word  any 
time,  an'  we'll  quit.  Then,  agin,  if  any 
thing  turns  up  that  means  trouble,  jest  give 
me  a  hunch,  an'  I'll  git  —  understand?" 
[66] 


THE  WHISKEY  PEDDLER 

It  was  the  plainsman  speaking.  His  name 
was  Jim  Dodds.  He  extended  his  hand  to 
the  man  in  uniform.  "Is  it  a  go?"  he 
asked. 

The  officer  looked  warily  about.  "You 
will  never  use  my  name  ?  No  matter  what 
may  happen  ?" 

"Never!  They  kin  skin  me  alive  an*  I'll 
never  squawk,  Cap — never.  I'll  call  on  ye 
every  time  on  my  way  out  an*  divide  even 
up.  I  ain't  got  no  pardner.  I'm  dealin' 
this  game  alone." 

"Very  good,  then.  There's  my  hand  on 
it,"  said  the  officer.  Then  they  parted,  rid 
ing  in  opposite  directions. 

Whiskey  was  being  smuggled  into  the 
Northwest  Territory  by  men  who  had  been 
buffalo  hunters  or  trappers  on  the  Montana 
plains,  and  the  game,  spiced  by  danger  as 
it  was,  beckoned  the  most  reckless  among 
them.  ; 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

Jim  Dodds  had  been  a  keen  hunter.  But 
the  buffalo  herds  had  dwindled,  and  he  was 
quick  to  adopt  this  new  and  exciting  way  of 
earning  a  livelihood.  The  country  was  wild 
and  unsettled.  There  were  cow  ranches, 
but  always  long  distances  apart;  and  cow 
men  cared  nothing  for  what  was  "none  of 
their  business."  So  Jim  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  the  Canadian  line  five  times  without 
meeting  obstacles. 

Each  time  he  called  to  pay  his  respects 
and  to  "report"  to  the  officer  on  his  way 
back  to  Montana.  But  there  are  wheels 
within  wheels.  Somebody  had  grown  sus 
picious  of  Jim's  comings  and  goings.  The 
innocent  one  communicated  his  surmises  to 
the  officer,  never  suspecting  that  there  was 
an  understanding  between  him  and  the 
suspected  Jim. 

"Very  good,"  he  told  the  suspicious  one, 
"very  good.  I  shall  arrest  him  the  next 
[68] 


THE  WHISKEY  PEDDLER 


time    he    calls    or — make    him    explain    his 


visits." 


The  winter  had  come  and  with  it  the  bitter 
cold  of  the  northwest  plains.  But  weather 
did  not  deter  Jim  from  plying  his  trade.  He 
set  out  for  the  Canadian  line  with  a  pack- 
horse  loaded  down  with  kegs,  well  hidden 
beneath  blankets  and  pack  mantle.  He  had 
never  been  careless.  On  every  trip  he  had 
assured  himself  that  there  were  no  Mounted 
Police  at  the  point  where  he  crossed  the  line. 
There  were  none  this  time. 

Once  within  Canada  Jim  felt  reasonably 
safe,  for  a  pack-horse  was  not  a  suspicious 
thing.  So  he  journeyed  along  the  ways  of 
other  men,  and  meeting  citizens  or  police 
greeted  them  all  alike  with  a  pleasant 
"howdy."  He  was  happy,  and  his  mood  was 
a  pass  along  every  road,  for  how  could  such 
a  jolly  fellow  be  bent  upon  a  crooked  errand  ? 

When  at  last  he  had  reached  his  ready 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

customer  and  had  disposed  of  his  goods  he 
began  the  return  trip,  going  by  way  of  the 
post  whereat  his  silent  partner  awaited  him. 
Jim  was  happy  with  the  thought  of  the  divi 
sion  of  spoils.  "  It'll  shore  surprise  him  this 
time.  That  was  some  load,  that  one." 
And  he  chuckled.  He  had  sold  the  pack- 
horse  with  the  whiskey.  It  saved  explana 
tions,  and,  besides,  he  could  travel  faster. 

The  snow  was  not  more  than  three  inches 
deep  over  the  frozen  ground,  but  the  ther 
mometer  stood  at  twenty  degrees  below 
zero  when  he  rode  into  the  post  of  the 
Mounted  Police.  The  officer,  himself,  was 
standing  in  the  door  of  his  quarters  as  Jim 
rode  up.  He  had  seen  him  coming.  A  half 
dozen  of  his  command  had  seen  the  horse 
man  also,  and  were  waiting  for  him. 

"Hello,  Cap,"  greeted  Jim.  "Some  cold 
to-day,  ain't  it?"  He  prepared  to  dis 
mount,  but  the  officer  said: 

[70] 


THE  WHISKEY  PEDDLER 

"I'll  have  to  arrest  you,  Jim/' 

The  plainsman  straightened  in  his  saddle. 
One  look  at  the  man  and  Jim  knew  that 
something  was  wrong.  It  was  the  "hunch" 
he  had  asked  for  in  case  of  trouble. 

Instantly  his  spurs  were  against  the  sides 
of  his  horse,  and  the  animal  dashed  away. 

"Halt!    Halt!"     Bang! 

Jim  fell  from  his  saddle.  The  officer  had 
shot  him. 

They  carried  him  to  a  cot  in  the  hospital 
on  the  second  floor  of  a  log  building,  and 
there  they  laid  him  down,  conscious,  but 
badly  wounded.  The  .45  calibre  bullet  had 
gone  through  the  cantle  of  his  saddle  and 
then  through  his  hip,  carrying  a  bit  of  leather 
with  it.  The  shock  of  the  bullet  had  brought 
a  numbness  that  was  merciful,  for  the  sur 
geon  was  twenty  miles  away.  The  room 
began  to  sway  dizzily,  and  then — but  he 
shut  his  eyes  tight  and  gritted  his  teeth. 

[71 1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room.  He  tried 
to  think. 

What  did  they  know  ?  What  would  they 
do  to  him  now?  How  could  they  have 
found  him  out  unless — yes,  his  friend  must 
have  weakened,  must  have  given  him  up. 
"If  he  has,"  he  sighed,  "it's  Stony  Moun 
tain  for  me."  The  thought  made  him  open 
his  eyes. 

The  daylight  was  fading.  The  yellow  sun 
light  came  through  the  wide  window — a 
sliding  window — and  fell  upon  the  hewn  log 
wall.  The  fire  in  the  stove  at  the  far  end 
of  the  room  crackled  into  life.  Then  a 
horse  whinnied  outside  under  the  wide  win 
dow.  Jim  knew  that  whinny!  He  crept 
from  his  cot  and  dragged  himself  to  the  cas 
ing.  He  raised  himself  painfully  to  look 
out.  Some  one  was  talking  in  the  room 
below. 

"Well,  we  have  him  safe  enough,"  a  voice 

[72] 


THE  WHISKEY  PEDDLER 

said.  "He  will  go  to  Stony  Mountain  if 
he  lives." 

It  was  the  voice  of  his  friend,  and  hate 
surged  through  him  as  he  listened.  He 
shoved  the  window  cautiously  aside.  A  long, 
peeled  pole  was  leaning  against  the  building. 
He  whistled,  and  a  horse  came  around  the 
corner  of  the  hospital.  It  was  Bits,  his  own 
wonderful  horse. 

Jim  crawled  through  the  window  and  slid 
down  the  pole  to  the  ground.  Somehow 
he  managed  to  mount  the  horse.  He  had 
no  saddle  nor  bridle  nor  rope,  but  twisting 
his  fingers  into  Bits'  mane,  Jim  Dodds  rode 
away — up  the  St.  Mary's  River  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  wounded,  as  I  have  told  you,  and 
on  a  naked  horse. 


[73] 


THE  POST-OFFICE  AT  WOLFTAIL 

THE  stage  stopped  at  a  cow  ranch  far 
from  other  human  habitation.  The 
driver,  after  spending  some  time  in  pawing 
over  the  contents  of  the  front  boot,  threw  an 
apparently  empty  mail-sack  to  the  ground 
before  the  cabin.  Then,  gathering  up  the 
reins,  he  expectorated  violently,  for  he  was 
chewing  tobacco. 

"Wolftail !  pardner.  Here's  where  you 
git  off,"  he  called,  leaning  slightly  from  his 
high  perch  on  the  Concord  coach. 

A  young  man  got  out.  He  carried  a  suit 
case,  and  his  tan  buttoned  shoes  and  derby 
hat  fairly  screamed  "tenderfoot"  to  the 
silence  about  him — for  the  coach  had  gone 
its  way  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

The  sun  was  high  and  hot.     The  desert- 

[74] 


THE  POST-OFFICE  AT  WOLFTAIL 

like  plains  had  been  baked  until  they  had 
cracked.  The  range  was  drying  up.  The 
water-holes  were  empty  now,  and  as  far  as 
the  stranger  could  see  there  was  not  a  single 
living  thing  in  sight. 

He  knocked  on  the  door.  There  was  no 
answer.  Then  he  tried  the  knob,  and  the 
door  opened,  for  it  was  unlocked.  The 
coolness  of  the  cabin  invited  him,  and  he 
entered  with  an  air  of  proprietorship. 
"Whew !"  he  said,  and  setting  down  his  suit 
case,  he  mopped  his  face  with  a  linen  hand 
kerchief. 

It  was  cool  in  the  cabin,  for  the  thick  dirt 
roof  was  a  warrant  against  the  sun.  A  lone 
bald-faced  hornet,  worn  out  and  battered, 
was  crawling  laboriously  up  a  grimy  window- 
pane,  only  to  fall  back  and  begin  the  ascent 
again. 

Besides  the  stranger,  a  cat  had  availed 
herself  of  the  cabin's  shelter,  and  being 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

awakened,  stretched  herself  listlessly,  and 
then,  noting  something  disappointing  about 
the  visitor,  crawled  away  under  the  bunk 
in  the  corner,  where  from  the  darkness  she 
gazed  at  the  disturber,  her  eyes  glistening 
green  displeasure. 

"Kitty,  kitty,  kitty,"  called  our  friend, 
invitingly.  But  the  cat  would  have  none  of 
him.  So  he  looked  about. 

"Guns,  guns,  guns,"  he  murmured  a.s  he 
surveyed  the  rack  upon  which  hung  an  as 
sortment  of  rifles.  There  was  a  colored  like 
ness  of  Abraham  Lincoln  and  another  of 
Washington  at  Monmouth.  Besides,  there 
was  a  calendar,  and  a  soap-box  that  had  been 
nailed  to  the  cabin  wall.  These  furnished 
the  decorations — all  of  them.  The  owner's 
brand  had  been  liberally  burned  on  the  door; 
but  this  had  been  done  on  the  outside,  so  the 
marks  could  hardly  be  included  in  the  decora 
tions  within. 

[76] 


THE  POST-OFFICE  AT  WOLFTAIL 

The  stranger  finally  sat  down  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  "I'll  have  something  to  say  to 
Mr.  Man  when  he  returns,"  he  mused. 
"Nice,  isn't  it  ?  Oh,  very  nice,  indeed,  but 
he  will  find  that  I " 

His  musing  was  suddenly  interrupted. 
A  cayuse  had  stopped  at  the  open  door,  and 
the  roll  of  the  bit  in  the  horse's  mouth  was 
an  unfamiliar  sound  to  our  friend.  He 
watched  a  man  dismount  and  stoop  to  pick 
up  the  mail-sack,  drawing  it  toward  him, 
while  the  cayuse  backed  away  with  a  fright 
ened  snort.  "Strange,"  he  thought,  when 
the  horse,  trailing  his  loose  bridle-reins, 
stopped  as  he  felt  their  trifling  weight. 

The  rider  began  to  whistle  absently  as  he 
entered  the  cabin  with  the  mail-sack.  He 
crossed  the  floor  to  the  table  near  the  window, 
secured  a  key,  and  unlocked  the  sack.  Then 
he  emptied  its  contents  carelessly  upon  the 
table.  There  were  five  letters  and  two 

[77] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

wrapped  papers.  One  of  the  papers,  bound 
ing  about  among  the  dishes  there,  upset  the 
sugar-bowl  before  it  landed  on  the  floor. 
The  man  swore  under  his  breath.  Then 
he  scooped  the  sugar  into  a  pile  with  his 
hand  and,  holding  the  sugar-bowl  near  the 
edge  of  the  table,  scraped  the  spilled  sweet 
ness  back  into  its  rightful  place.  This  done, 
he  stooped  to  recover  the  refractory  paper 
and  saw  the  visitor. 

"Howdy,  stranger,"  he  greeted. 

"How  are  you,  sir?  Are  you  the  post 
master?" 

"Hell,  no.  I  live  down  on  the  river. 
Circle-dot's  my  iron.  I  was  just  lookin'  to 
see  if  there  was  anything  fer  me,  but  there 
ain't."  He  gathered  up  the  letters  and  pa 
pers,  and  crossing  the  room  to  the  soap-box, 
he  laid  them  in  it.  Then  he  took  up  a  dozen 
or  more  letters  that  had  been  in  the  box  and 
ran  them  through,  slowly,  making  sure  of 
[78] 


THE  POST-OFFICE  AT  WOLFTAIL 

every  name  upon  the  much-handled  en 
velopes. 

Selecting  three  or  four  letters  and  a  paper, 
he  tucked  them  into  his  pocket.  "I  see 
there's  mail  for  some  of  the  SY  outfit,  an' 
I'm  ridin'  that  way  so  I'll  take  it  along. 
Say,  what's  in  yer  cigarette  that  makes  it 
stink  that  a-way  ?" 

"It's  a  Turkish  cigarette,  sir." 

"Bet  it  is,  all  right.  Smells  like  a  mocca 
sin  afire.  Antiose" 

He  rode  away.  The  young  man  got  out  a 
notebook  and  in  it  made  some  entries.  "Oh, 
this  will  be  spicy,"  he  murmured,  "and  com 
ing  in  upon  him  unexpectedly,  I'll  learn 
much."  Then  he  selected  another  cigarette 
from  a  golden  case  and  lighted  it. 

The  sun  had  settled  well  toward  the  hori 
zon  when  another  rider  came  to  the  cabin. 
He  breezed  in  good-humoredly,  sensing  com 
pany,  no  doubt. 

[79] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Howdy,"  he  said.  "And  who  might 
you  be,  stranger  ?  Hungry  ?" 

"Are  you  the  postmaster?"  asked  the 
young  man  severely,  ignoring  the  polite 
question. 

"Yep." 

"Well,  sir,  I  am  a  United  States  Inspector 
of  post-offices,  and " 

"The  hell  you  be!" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  I  shall  have  to  report  the 
grossest  carelessness  on  your  part  to  the 
department.  Their " 

"You  will!" 

The  man  stuffed  the  mail-sack  into  the 
soap-box  and  wrenched  the  box  from  the  wall. 

"I'll  jest  make  it  worth  yer  while  to  add 
to  yer  report,  son.  They  ain't  never  heard 
from  me.  Tell  'em  I  said  to  go  to  hell. 
There's  yer  damn  post-office !  Go  git  it ! " 

And  he  threw  the  box  out  of  the  door. 

i  so] 


JEW  JAKE'S  MONTE 

F  INHERE  are  uncounted  beauty  spots  in 
•*-  Montana  and  among  them  the  Little 
Rocky  Range  is  not  the  least.  Rising  sud 
denly  from  the  level  plain  that  was  the  cow 
man's  paradise,  the  beautiful  timbered  moun 
tains  stretch  away  for  some  twenty-five 
miles,  and  then — where  are  they?  Gone. 
Real  mountains,  too,  with  deep-cut  canyons 
and  tinted  cliffs;  with  snowy  peaks  in  the 
early  fall  and  gold  mines  that  are  within 
sight  of  old  cow  ranches,  and  even  an  Indian 
reservation.  In  short,  the  old  West  is  there, 
all  there — or  was.  And  there,  too,  nature 
and  circumstance  have  combined  to  prove 
that  contrast  is  the  best  teacher  of  apprecia 
tion;  for  in  no  other  place  are  there  greater 
differences  in  mountains,  meadows,  or  men. 
In  the  Little  Rockies  are  two  towns, 
[81  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

Landusky  and  Zortman.  Landusky,  even 
now,  is  seventy-five  miles  from  a  railroad. 
In  the  earlier  days  it  was  not  only  a  cow- 
town  but,  because  of  the  gold  mines  in  the 
Little  Rockies,  Landusky  was  also  a  mining- 
camp.  This  combination  of  industries,  es 
pecially  because  of  the  country's  remoteness, 
was  a  bid  for  the  wild  in  life.  The  town  was 
named  from  Old  Pike  Landusky,  an  early 
settler,  and  Pike  was  killed  by  Kid  Curry, 
the  notorious  outlaw  who  lived  near  by  at 
the  time.  The  Kid  killed  Pike  in  the  latter's 
saloon,  and  "thereby  hangs  a  tale" — an 
other  tale,  altogether. 

The  old  town  was  tough,  but  no  tougher 
than  Jew  Jake  who  lived  in  it  and  ran  a 
saloon.  Jake  was  a  cripple.  He  had  been 
shot  in  a  fight  in  Great  Falls.  The  bullet 
smashed  his  knee,  and  from  that  time  on 
Jew  Jake  stumped  about  his  place  of  business 
using  a  Winchester  rifle  as  a  crutch. 
[82] 


JEW  JAKE'S  MONTE 


Mrs.  Jake  frequented  the  place  at  times. 
Her  makeup  was  in  perfect  keeping  with  her 
man's  position  in  life,  and  her  affections  were 
shared  between  Jake  and  her  dog.  The  dog 
was  an  undershot  Boston  terrier  with  a 
cigarette  voice  and  ears  like  tablespoons. 
His  tail  was  abbreviated  and  bent,  with  a 
withering  twist  at  the  end,  which  was  but 
three  inches  from  where  it  began  to  be  a 
tail. 

Besides  the  Mrs.  and  the  dog,  there  was  a 
horse  that  belonged  to  Jew  Jake's  band  of 
pets,  and  Jake  loved  the  horse  as  much  as 
the  Mrs.  loved  the  terrier.  Some  were  un 
kind  enough  to  say  that  he  thought  more  of 
Monte  than  he  did  of  Blanche,  and  Blanche 
was  the  Mrs.,  at  that.  Anyhow,  no  one 
ever  stole  Blanche,  but  one  night  a  man  stole 
Monte;  and  Jew  Jake  went  to  war. 

Monte  was  a  strawberry  roan,  high-strung, 
and  a  regular  "town  horse."  He  had  been 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

stolen  from  the  Flathead  Indians,  and  Jake 
had  won  him  at  the  poker  table  from  a  cow- 
puncher  of  well-known  "rustling"  proclivi 
ties.  Jake  had  taught  him  tricks,  and  he 
was  as  cunning  as  a  faro-dealer.  He  was 
the  best  "rope  horse"  in  that  section,  and 
his  rider  always  got  the  money  in  a  roping 
and  tying  contest. 

But  Monte  was  gone.  It  was  Mrs.  Jake 
who  made  the  discovery  and  brought  the 
news  to  the  saloon  where  Jake  was  dealing 
bank. 

Jew  Jake  laid  his  cards  upon  the  table. 
His  eyes  took  on  the  light  of  murder  as  they 
swept  those  about  it.  "I  want  that  hoss 
back,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "The  game's 
out.  Cash  in." 

He  had  caught  no  guilty  glance  among  the 
men  there,  but  he  would  take  steps  to  make 
it  hard  for  the  thief  to  get  away. 

"Bill,  go  down  to  the  agency  and  tell  the 


JEW  JAKE'S  MONTE 


breeds  and  Injins  to  watch  fer  Monte.  Tell 
the  Circle  C  outfit,  too.  An',  Tom,  let  me 
have  yer  hoss  a  spell.  Dick,  tend  bar." 

Then  he  stumped  out  of  the  place  and 
mounted  a  pony,  riding  not  toward  the 
plain,  but  up  the  gulch. 

"He's  playin'  a  hunch,"  said  Pete  Sharp. 
"I  don't  savvy  how  any  man  expects  to  git 
away  with  a  hoss  as  well  known  in  these 
parts  as  Monte  is." 

For  two  hours  Jew  Jake  followed  the  trail 
that  led  back  into  the  mountains.  Then  he 
turned  in  an  easterly  direction,  picking  his 
way  over  the  rough  country  until  he  had 
gained  a  high  ridge  that  commanded  a  view 
of  some  open  places  below.  Here  he  got 
down  from  his  horse  and,  hopping  on  one  foot 
in  order  to  keep  his  Winchester's  muzzle  out 
of  the  dirt,  he  selected  an  advantageous  spot 
and  lay  down. 

Below  him  was  a  cabin  in  a  little  grove  of 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

fir  trees,  and  near  by  it  were  two  waste- 
dumps.  The  dirt  in  the  dumps  had  been 
hoisted  from  two  shallow  shafts  that  had 
been  sunk  on  a  wildcat  vein  by  Tom  Baker, 
years  before.  At  times  the  cabin  had  been 
the  hangout  of  shady  characters,  and  Jew 
Jake  likely  knew  who  occupied  it  now. 

Not  a  soul  was  stirring.  No  smoke  was 
coming  from  the  chimney;  but  the  man  on 
the  hilltop  lay  motionless — waiting. 

It  was  October,  and  the  days  were  not  long. 
The  sun  had  gone  below  the  mountain-tops 
when  he  heard  a  horse  whinny  down  near 
the  cabin.  Then  two  men  came  up  the 
trail.  They  were  talking  excitedly.  He  could 
tell  that  from  the  gestures  they  made.  They 
stopped  near  the  cabin  door  and  continued 
their  argument.  The  light  was  fading  rap 
idly  when  one  of  the  men  went  into  the 
cabin.  He  reappeared  immediately,  leading 
a  horse.  It  was  Monte.  Jake  knew  him 
[86] 


JEW  JAKE'S  MONTE 


even  at  that  distance  and  in  the  dusk.  He 
fired.  The  man,  not  the  one  that  led  the 
horse,  but  the  other  fellow,  fell.  Jake  tried 
to  get  another  shot  but  couldn't.  He  hopped 
to  where  he  had  left  his  saddle-horse,  but 
he  was  gone. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  it  was  dark,  and 
he  was  afoot.  The  horse  might  have  been 
gone  for  hours,  but  he  had  been  so  intent 
in  watching  the  cabin  that  he  had  not  heard 
him  move.  Not  being  able  to  see  to  shoot 
in  the  darkness,  he  turned  his  Winchester 
to  its  commoner  use  as  a  crutch  and  stumped 
down  the  mountain.  It  was  daylight  when 
he  got  back  to  Landusky. 

At  noon  he  went  again  to  the  scene  of  the 
shooting,  this  time  with  several  men.  There 
was  not  a  sign  of  the  horse.  The  men  had 
gone,  of  course,  but  there  was  blood  on  the 
spot  where  Jake  had  said  the  man  fell — not 
much,  but  enough  to  verify  his  story. 
[87] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

They  searched  the  hills.  Men  rode  over 
every  foot  of  ground  within  ten  miles  of  the 
place,  and  they  were  men  who  could  trail 
a  horse,  too.  But  not  a  track  could  they  find. 
They  examined  the  dumps  near  the  cabin  and 
peered  into  the  shafts.  One  shaft  had  caved 
and  the  caving  had  been  recent.  This  was 
all  they  found  to  pay  for  their  trouble — a 
newly  caved  shaft  on  an  abandoned  mining 
claim. 

Jake  offered  a  reward  for  Monte,  and  every 
one  was  on  the  lookout  for  him.  But  five 
days  went  by.  Then  a  Frenchman  came 
into  Jake's  place  in  Landusky. 

"I'm  'unt  de  deer,  me,"  he  said,  "back  hon 
de  'ill.  Pretty  soon  hFm  'ear  de  magpie. 
Plantee  magpie,  hl'm  leesen  'ard.  Pm  say, 
'  Bar  gar !  mus'  be  som-e-ting  is  dead,  mebby. 
hPm  goin'  down  dere,'  an'  me,  hFm  findin' 
in'  dis  wan  piece  'orse  'ide.  Wat  you  tink 
dat,  hey  ?"  The  man  produced  a  willow  hoop 
[88] 


JEW  JAKE'S  MONTE 


inside  of  which  he  had  sewn  a  patch  of  roan- 
colored  horsehide  with  the  brand  OM  upon  it. 

It  was  Monte's  brand.     Jake  was  frantic. 

But  where  was  the  horse  ?  "  'E's  dead,  dat 
Monte  'orse.  Somebody's  keel  it  Monte. 
Magpie  is  fightin'  ovair  dis  wan  piece  ees 
skeen,"  said  the  Frenchman  as  he  poured 
himself  a  drink.  "No  saree,  dere  is  no  'orse 
dere.  Jist  dees  wan  piece  'ide,  de  sam'  lak 
hl'm  telhV  to  you,  me." 

"I've  got  it,  Jake  !"  cried  the  Mrs.  "Mon- 
te's  in  that  old  caved  shaft !" 

And  he  was.  They'd  got  scared,  you  see, 
and  shot  the  horse.  Then  they  had  cut  off 
his  brand,  rolled  him  in,  and  blasted  the 
shaft  to  cover  the  carcass.  They  figured 
that  if  the  horse  were  ever  found,  no  one 
would  be  able  to  prove  the  property  without 
the  brand. 


WE: 


AT  THE  BAR 

LL  sing  The  Cowboy"  said  Shorty. 
Now,  all  together,  boys." 


"I  wash  in  a  pool  and  wipe  on  a  sack; 
I  carry  my  wardrobe  all  on  my  back; 
For  want  of  an  oven  I  bake  in  a  pot, 
And  sleep  on  the  ground  for  want  of  a  cot. 

My  ceiling's  the  sky,  my  floor  is  the  grass, 
My  music's  the  lowing  of  herds  as  they  pass; 
My  books  are  the  brooks,  my  sermons  the  stones, 
My  parson's  a  wolf  on  his  pulpit  of  bones." 

"Whoa !"  cried  the  leader.     "Whoa !" 
The  singing  ceased.     A  stranger  had  en 
tered.     He  was  a  bearded  man.     Slouching 
up  to  the  bar,  he  bought  himself  a  drink. 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  the  lowest-down  job 
I  ever  see  a  white  man  do,  I'm  an  Injin. 
Thought  shore  he'd  treat,"  said  Shorty,  in  a 
stage  whisper.  "Another  verse,  boys.  Here 
we  go!" 

[90] 


AT  THE  BAR 


"If  my  chin  was  hairy,  I'd  pass  for  the  goat 
That  bore  all  the  sins  of  ages  remote; 
But  why  they  shun  the  puncher  I  can't  under 
stand, 

For  each  of  the  patriarchs  owned  a  big  brand. 
Abraham  emigrated  in  search  of  a  range, 
When  water  got  scarce  he  wanted  a  change; 
Old  Isaac  owned  cattle  in  charge  of  Esau, 
And  Jacob   punched  cows  for  his   brother-in- 
law." 

"  Bully ! "  cried  Shorty.  "  Bully !  Set  'em 
up,  barkeeper,  set  'em  up.  Won't  ye  hev 
somethin',  stranger  ?  Hev  a  little  somethin' 
with  us." 

"I'll  take  a  seegar,"  said  the  bearded  man. 

"Shore,"  said  Shorty.  "Shore,  take  what 
ye  want.  Yer  choice  is  yer  own/' 

A  bob-tailed  shepherd  dog  was  at  the  heels 
of  the  stranger.  His  alert  eyes  followed 
every  movement  of  his  master  and  those 
about  him.  Timid  and  unused  to  the  bois 
terous  cow-punchers,  he  was  careful  to  keep 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

out  of  everybody's  way,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  to  remain  on  the  ground. 

The  man  lighted  the  cigar  and  went  out 
of  the  place,  the  dog  giving  evidence  of  joy 
at  the  move. 

"Sheepherder,"  said  Shorty  in  disgust. 

"A  gentle  shepherd;  real  gentle,"  supple 
mented  Buck  Bowers.  "Baa-ba-baa!"  he 
called  after  the  retreating  man. 

"Should  think  they'd  git  lonesome,  fel 
lers,"  said  Shorty  as  he  thoughtfully  rolled 
a  cigarette. 

"Lonesome?  No!"  said  Buck,  disgust 
edly.  "They  always  got  a  grouch  an'  a 
Waterbury  watch,  an'  when  they  ain't 
nursin'  the  one  they're  windin'  the  other. 
Ain't  got  no  time  to  git  lonesome,  them 
fellers." 

"Never  did  see  that  one  before.  Must  be 
a  new  one,"  said  Slim.  "Wow!  but  it's 
raimn'.  Big  Alkali'll  be  up,  shore.  Let's 

[92] 


AT  THE  BAR 


not  ride  to-night.     Let's  stick,  an*  breeze  in 
the  mornin'." 

"All  right.  We'll  have  another,"  agreed 
the  Kid.  And  the  night  wore  away.  One 
by  one  the  crowd  had  melted. 

Buck,  who  had  been  the  first  to  go,  was 
the  first  to  come  back  to  the  saloon  at  day 
light.  Ott  Canaday  was  tending  bar. 

"Have  a  mornin's  mornin',  Buck?"  asked 
Ott. 

"  Shore.  Say,  somebody's  stole  my  saddle- 
blanket,  an'  it's  a  Navajo,  too." 

"Where  did  ye  leave  it,  Buck  ?" 

"Down  to  the  stable.  Everything's  there 
but  the  blanket.  I  wouldn't  take  a  pretty 
for  the  blanket  neither." 

"Mebby  the  boys  hev  jobbed  ye." 

"Mebby,  but  I  don't  believe  it." 

"Any  strangers " 

"Say!"  interrupted   Buck.     "I  bet  that 
sheepherder  took  it.     Where's  Slim  ?" 
[93  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Ain't  seen  him,"  said  Ott. 

"I'll  make  a  roundup  right  now,"  said 
Buck,  and  he  went  outside. 

Half  an  hour  later  seven  horsemen  rode 
up  to  the  saloon.  Buck  had  found  the  boys. 
He  got  down  and  came  in. 

"Ott,"  he  said,  "where's  that  there  sheriff's 
star  ye  uster  hev — that  one  from  Texas  ? " 

"In  my  war  sack,"  said  Ott.     "Why  ?" 

"Git  it." 

Buck  polished  the  badge  of  office  on  his 
chaps  and  pinned  it  to  his  shirt  under  his 
coat. 

Then  the  cavalcade  rode  out  of  town, 
silently  for  once.  A  fine,  drizzling  rain  was 
falling,  and  the  gumbo  flats  were  next  to 
impassable.  Long,  V-shaped  flocks  of  wild 
geese  were  flying  northward,  and  there  were 
great  puddles  of  water  before  the  saloon 
and  about  the  hitch-rack.  Milk  River  was 
overflowing  its  banks,  and  Big  Alkali  would 

[94] 


AT  THE  BAR 


swim  a  horse.  Out  on  the  ranges  the  young 
grass  was  short,  but  vividly  green,  while  the 
cottonwoods  and  quaking  aspens  back  of  the 
town  were  just  venturing  to  put  forth  a 
promise  of  foliage. 

"Yahee!  Yahee!  ay—ay— ay.  Ya- 
hee!"  Bang!  Bang! 

One  lone  cow-puncher  stood  on  the  rail 
road's  right  of  way  in  the  rain.  He  was 
alternately  yelling  and  shooting  at  tin  cans 
that  littered  the  ground  near  by.  Save  for 
him,  the  lone  disturber,  the  town  was  quiet, 
as  if  resigned  to  any  fate. 

Cashelhofer's  cat  crawled  from  under  the 
porch  and  began  to  pick  his  way  gingerly 
through  the  mud.  He  was  going  to  the 
shed  behind  the  hotel.  Suddenly  the  cat's 
tail  grew  to  double  size,  and  ^ignoring  the 
gumbo,  he  tore  away  for  shelter  as  the 
"posse"  dashed  up  before  the  saloon  with 
the  sheepherder,  a  prisoner.1  • 

[95] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Git  down,"  commanded  Buck. 

The  sheepherder  obeyed  instantly. 

"Don't  try  nothin',  pardner,"  said  the 
sheriff,  as  the  frightened  man  looked  across 
the  muddy  road.  "I'd  as  lief  kill  ye  as  not. 
Come  on."  And  he  conducted  him  into  the 
saloon,  followed  by  the  faithful  "posse." 

"Keep  yer  eyes  on  him,  boys,"  said  Buck. 
"If  he  makes  a  break,  plug  him.  I'll  go  an' 
find  the  judge."  He  turned  toward  the 
door. 

"If — supposin' — "  said  Slim.  "'Course 
I'm^only  supposin',  but  suppose  he  offered 
to  buy  a  drink,  shall  we  let  him  ?" 

Buck  pondered.  "Oh,  if  he  should  want 
to  loosen  up " 

"I — I  want  to,"  said  the  prisoner.  "I 
intended  to  treat."  His  voice  shook.  "I 
was  going  to  ask  ye — honest,  I  was,  sheriff." 

He  drew  a  worn  wallet  from  his  pocket. 

The  eyes  of  the  "posse"  grew  large.     It 

[96] 


AT  THE  BAR 


was  well  filled.  The  sheepherder  selected  a 
bill  from  the  store  and  laid  it  on  the  bar. 
Ott  served  the  drinks,  but  offered  no  change. 

"Has  he  got  yer  blanket,  sheriff?"  he 
asked  as  he  laid  the  bill  in  the  cash-drawer. 

"Did  hev,  but  he  ain't  now." 

"I'm  sorry  for  him,  then.  The  judge  is 
pretty  hard  on  thieves,"  he  said  as  he  mopped 
the  bar  with  a  towel.  He  was  wondering 
who  the  judge  might  be. 

But  Buck  had  chosen.  "Seen  Judge  Cos- 
grove  this  mornin',  Ott  ? " 

"He's  over  to  Hank's  playin*  pin — er — a 
piano  fer  a  sick  man,"  he  said. 

"I'll  go  git  him,"  said  Buck. 

"Wait,  wait,  sheriff.  I  want  to  treat  the 
boys  agin." 

"All  right.  He  might  move,  but  I  reckon 
I  kin  find  him.  Shoot!" 

The  sheepherder  laid  a  silver  dollar  on 
the  bar. 

[97] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Come  agin,  sport,"  said  Ott.  "The 
crowd  has  growed  some." 

It  had.  The  place  was  filled,  for  the  news 
had  spread.  The  prisoner  produced  an 
other  bill  in  lieu  of  the  dollar,  and  it  went  the 
way  of  the  first.  He  made  no  comment. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  me,  sheriff?"  And 
Harry  Cosgrove  elbowed  his  way  to  the 
bar. 

"Yes,  yer  honor.  I've  got  a  prisoner 
here.  If  it's  all  the  same  to  you  an* — an' 
yer  docket  won't  be  upset,  I'd  like  fer  ye  to 
hear  the  case  now." 

The  judge  considered  a  moment.  "  What's 
the  prisoner  charged  with  ?" 

"StealinV  said  Buck. 

"A  thief  ?  Is  that  possible— well !  Who's 
his  attorney  ? " 

"Ain't  got  none  yet,  judge.  Better  ap 
point  a  lawyer  for  him.  He's  a  stranger." 

The  judge  pondered.  "See  if  ye  can  find 
[98] 


AT  THE  BAR 


Attorney  Barry.  I  saw  him  in  town.  Mr. 
Colby  will  prosecute,  of  course,"  he  said 
finally. 

Slim  went  to  find  Bud  Barry,  and  Buck 
found  Colby  in  the  hotel. 

The  judge  shook  hands  with  the  attorneys 
as  they  came  in,  and  the  trial  began  on  the 
spot. 

"Your  honor,"  began  Colby,  "I  shall 
prove  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  defendant 
stole,  took,  and  carried  away  one  Navajo 
saddle-blanket  from  the  stable  in  Malta 
last  night.  I  shall  prove,  also,  that  the 
property  belongs  to  Buck — er — Mr.  Bowers, 
the  sheriff,  an* " 

"May  it  please  yer  honor,"  Barry's  voice 
drowned  Colby's.  "My  client  wants  to 
buy  a  drink  for  the  judge  and  those  here  as 
sembled.  I  move  the  court  that  he  be  per 
mitted  to  do  so." 

"The  court  will  entertain  the  motion," 
1991 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 


said  Cosgrove.     "Court  is  recessed  for  five 


minutes." 


At  the  expiration  of  the  allotted  time  the 
judge  rapped  upon  the  card-table.  Order 
was  promptly  resumed. 

"Proceed,  Mr.  Colby,"  said  the  court. 

"I  shall  also  prove,"  continued  Colby, 
"that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar — the  bar  of 
justice,  yer  honor — is  a  dissolute  character, 
and  I  will  show  by  my  witnesses  that  other 
crimes  than  the  one  he  is  now  charged  with 
are  standing  against  him  in  another  State. 
Your  honor,  murder  is " 

"May  it  please  the  honorable  court," 
again  Bud  Barry  interrupted,  "my  client 
begs,  nay,  implores,  the  court  to  allow  him 
an  opportunity  to  show  his  respect  and  es 
teem  for  this  city  by  purchasing  further 
refreshments.  I  therefore  move  the  court, 
asking  the  indulgence  of  the  gifted  prose 
cuting  attorney,  that  we  recess  for  five 


minutes." 


I  ioo] 


AT  THE  BAR 


"The  court  stands  recessed  for  five  min 
utes,"  said  the  judge. 

That  round  of  drinks  cost  fifteen  dollars. 
The  place  was  packed  to  the  door.  The 
sheepherder's  pile  dwindled  fast. 

Wedged  between  two  members  of  the 
"posse"  Buck  found  him  in  the  crowd. 
"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  he  whispered.  "I've 
jest  beared  the  boys  talkin'.  They  want  to 
hang  ye.  Yer  boss  is  standin'  out  in  front 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  help  ye.  I've  got  back  my 
blanket  an'  I  don't  hold  no  grudge.  When 
the  court  calls  to  order  I'll  start  a  fight. 
Listen  to  me  careful." 

"I'm  listenin',"  said  the  trembling  man. 

"Well,  ye'd  better  or  they'll  hang  ye.  Jest 
as  soon  as  the  judge  raps  on  that  table  I'll 
jump  onto  the  prosecutin'  attorney.  That'll 
start  a  row,  see  ?  Soon's  it  starts,  you  git. 
Git  out  of  that  door  an'  onto  yer  boss.  Then 
ride  like  hell.  Don't  stop,  an'  don't  never 
come  back." 

[101] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"I  won't  if  I  can  only  git  away,"  quavered 
the  man. 

Rap,  rap,  rap.  It  was  the  court  pounding 
the  table  with  the  butt  of  a  six-shooter. 
There  was  instant  commotion.  The  sched 
uled  row  was  sudden,  and  Buck's  on 
slaught  fierce. 

Interest  was  transferred  to  the  fight, 
which  all  but  two  or  three  thought  was  on 
the  square,  when  a  horse  tore  out  of  town 
followed  by  a  dog.  The  water  splashed 
from  the  puddles  as  he  passed. 

"Pore  little  dog,"  said  Buck.  "It's  a 
gait  he  ain't  never  hit  before — but  he's  got 
a  nose,  an'  he  kin  trail  him,  mebby,"  he 
laughed.  "Set  'em  up,  Ott." 


[    102] 


PAP'S  PINTO 

"TT7E  were   away  up  on  the   Madison 
*  *     once,  Andy  Stevens   and   I,"  said 
Bill.     "We'd    been    hunting    elk,    and    our 
horses  set  us  afoot.    They'd  gone,  and  we 
spent  several  days  hunting  them  before  we 
decided  they  had  pulled  out  for  good.     It 
was  high  time  we  were  getting  out,  and  one 
night  we  were  discussing  ways  and  means 
when  an  old  man  came  into  the  light  of  our 
camp-fire.     His  hair  was  white,  and  he  wore 
a  long  beard.     He  was  slim  and  not  very 
tall.     His  eyes  were  blue;  and  his  name  was 
Pap  Medders.     Pap  was  an  old  prospector; 
one  of  the  school  that  have  followed  the  buf 
falo  to  the  Sand  Hills,  you  know.     He  sat 
down  and  we  told  him  that  we  were  afoot. 
"'Hosses?'  he  asked. 
"  'Yes,  horses,'  said  Andy. 
[103  ] 


.ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"  Pap  poked  the  fire  spitefully.  'Humph,' 
he  said.  'I  uster  use  hosses  in  these  moun 
tains  till  experience  led  me  agin  the  fact  that 
God  A'mighty  wa'n't  jokin'  when  he  made  a 
burro.  An'  he  wa'n't.  He  made  him  a- 
purpose.  You  always  know  where  a  burro 
is  at.  It  don't  matter  where  or  when  ye 
camp  the  first  thing  ye  see  when  ye  poke 
yer  head  out  of  yer  blankets  in  the  mornin' 
is  a  pair  of  jackass  ears.  Ye  kin  camp  in  a 
blizzard  or  on  a  desert  where  there  ain't 
enough  grass  to  chink  the  cracks  between  the 
ribs  of  a  sand-fly.  It  don't  make  no  differ 
ence.  Mr.  Burro  is  with  ye  when  ye  want 
to  move. 

"On  the  other  hand  take  a  cayuse. 
Camp  on  the  best  spot  the  Lord  ever  fer 
tilized  fer  feed,  an'  when  ye  wake  up  in  the 
mornin'  what  do  ye  see  ?  His  tracks  !  Yes, 
sir,  his  doggone  tracks  a-p'intin'  out  of  the 
country.  That's  what  ye  see.  Hosses  nigh 
[  104  ] 


PAP'S  PINTO 


wore  me  out.  I'd  git  mad  an*  tie  'em  up 
nights  figgerin'  I'd  sooner  see  their  bones  at 
daybreak  than  their  trail  down  a  gulch. 
Then  I'd  git  sorry  fer  'em  tied  up  at  night 
that  way  an'  turn  'em  loose.  Shore  as  I  did 
I'd  spend  a  week  lookin'  fer  'em. 

"  *  I  hed  a  pack-hoss  once — hed  several, 
fer  as  that's  concerned,  but  the  one  I  want 
to  tell  ye  of  was  the  one  that  weaned  me  fer 
keeps.  He  was  a  glass-eyed,  Roman-nosed 
pinto,  with  one  real  soft,  bluish  eye  that 
looked  like  it  belonged  to  a  choir-singer. 
The  other  one  was  no  relation  to  it,  an'  the 
devil  peeped  from  under  the  lashes  that  hid 
it  when  he  slept.  I  got  him  from  a  half- 
breed  on  the  Flathead  Reservation,  an' 
I'm  a-bettin'  that  all  the  cayuse  cussedness 
that  wa'n't  bound  up  in  his  hide  is  hid  away 
somewhere  in  the  make-up  of  a  rattlesnake. 
There  couldn't  a-been  enough  left  over  after 
his  creation  to  have  enthused  a  much  bigger 

1 105] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

carcass.  His  end  was  sudden  an'  some  pain 
ful,  but  when  I  look  back  I  ain't  burdened 
none  with  remorse  ner  regret,  fer  he  courted 
it  from  the  time  I  first  got  my  rope  on  him 
till  he  went  an*  made  the  play  that  won  him 
a  place  in  memory. 

"  °Twas  ten  years  ago,  an'  I  was  on  my 
way  to  a  minin'  stampede,  south.  I  hed 
my  twenty-five  years'  gatherin'  on  the  lump 
o'  cussedness,  an'  was  a-hittin'  the  trail 
across  the  country  afoot.  Him  an'  me  hed 
no  end  o'  trouble  tryin'  to  boss  the  outfit. 
I  uster  tie  him  up  o'  nights  on  account  of  his 
noticeable  desire  to  quit  the  game,  an' 
every  mornin'  I'd  hev  to  break  him  all  over 
agin.  I'd  blindfold  him,  tie  up  a  leg,  an' 
pack  him,  but  ye  never  could  tell  when  he'd 
turn  himself  to  buckin'  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  I  hed  many  a  narrow  escape  from 
losin'  him  an'  my  outfit,  but  managed  to 
snub  him  up  by  diggin'  my  heels  into  the 
[  106] 


PAP'S  PINTO 


ground  an'  stayin'  with  him.  Mean  !  That 
devil  hed  even  the  magpies  buffaloed,  an*  I 
never  knowed  one  to  fly  over  his  shadder  fer 
fear  o*  bad  luck.  He  was  fit  fer  one  thing, 
an*  that  was  to  bait  a  bear-trap  in  the  foot 
hills,  somewheres. 

"  'When  that  hoss  first  commenced  a  real 
flirtation  with  fate  was  one  night  when  I'd 
camped  in  a  bad  stretch  o'  desert.  It  got 
dark  on  me,  an'  I  hed  to  hev  daylight  not 
knowin'  the  country,  so  I  found  a  place  where 
there  was  jest  enough  feed  to  keep  the  pinto 
prospectin'.  I  pulled  the  pack,  looked  high 
an'  low  fer  a  picket-pin  I'd  been  packin',  but 
'twas  gone,  so  I  jest  held  onto  the  rope  an* 
let  him  feed  around  while  I  ate  a  bite.  There 
wa'n't  nothin'  to  build  a  fire  out  of,  an'  I 
could  see  that  a  storm  was  brewin'.  It  was 
only  April,  an'  the  weather  was  uncertain. 
The  sky  was  gittin'  black,  an'  the  wind  must 
hev  slid  over  a  snowbank  some  place,  fer  it 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

felt  as  chilly  as  frog  legs  agin  the  back  o' 
my  neck.  It  come  in  gusts.  Then  it  would 
die  down  till  it  sounded  like  somebody  was 
whisperin'  behind  me,  an'  I  felt  like  I'd  been 
doin'  somethin'  that  was  drawin'  interest. 

"  *  I  tied  my  pet  to  the  pack-saddle,  after 
fixin'  it  fer  a  pillow,  an*  crawled  into  the 
blankets,  allowin'  to  keep  a  hold  of  the  cinch 
of  the  saddle  in  order  to  be  ready  to  help  him 
finish  anything  he  might  start.  I'd  bought 
some  new  woollen  drawers.  They  was  coarse 
an5  irritated  my  skin.  I  didn't  expect  to 
sleep  none,  but  I  figgered  I'd  rest  a  lot  better 
with  them  drawers  off,  so  I  shed  'em.  That's 
where  I  was  a  fool,  but  I  tucked  'em  under 
the  blankets  with  my  pants.  To  make  sure 
of  the  pinto  I  spread  the  pack  mantle  over 
the  bed  and  then  tied  the  cinch  of  the  saddle 
to  it.  I  was  dead  sure  I  could  ketch  hold  of 
it  somewhere  if  he  should  pull  the  saddle 
from  under  my  head. 

[  108] 


PAP'S  PINTO 


: '  I'd  been  in  bed  about  an  hour  when  I 
felt  a  drop  of  rain  on  my  face.  A  few  min 
utes  later  a  big  black  cloud  that  had  been 
creepin'  up  over  me  began  to  let  out  sleet.  It 
wa'n't  so  bad  at  first,  an'  the  canvas  mantle 
kept  the  blankets  dry.  But  the  hoss  got  to 
snortin'  an'  pawin'  till  he  made  me  nervous. 
Then  the  wind  began  to  whoop  it  up,  an' 
at  every  extra  hard  gust  the  pinto  would  try 
the  rope.  It  was  half  sleet  and  half  snow 
now,  an'  it  cut  my  face  till  I  could  hardly 
stand  it.  It  was  freezin'  to  the  bed  an'  the 
camp  truck,  an'  I  couldn't  see  six  inches 
ahead  of  my  nose.  I  was  cussin'  myself  fer 
takin'  them  pants  an'  drawers  off  when 
z-z-zip !  went  the  pack  mantle  over  my 
head.  It  was  covered  with  ice  an'  was  stiff 
as  a  rawhide.  The  noise  it  made  scared  the 
pinto,  an'  in  the  mix-up  I  lost  my  hold  on 
the  mantle.  My  hands  was  numb.  I 
couldn't  hang  on,  an'  away  he  went,  draggin' 
[  109] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

the  pack-saddle,  mantle,  an'  rope  into  the 
night. 

'  *  I  lit  on  my  feet,  runnin'  like  a  wild  man 
— runnin'  after  a  stampeded  hoss  in  a  bliz 
zard  an*  in  the  dark. 

'  When  I  come  to  my  senses  an'  tumbled 
to  the  fix  I  was  in  I  stopped  an'  listened,  but 
the  wind  sung  in  my  ears  an'  drowned  any 
sound  I  might  have  heard  if  the  night  had 
been  still.  The  stingin'  sleet  cut  my  bare 
legs  like  the  lash  of  a  four-hoss  whip.  My 
feet  was  so  numb  that  I  didn't  even  feel 
the  cactus  I  stepped  on,  but  I  knowed  I'd 
feel  'em  next  day,  if  I  lived.  God  !  how  the 
wind  did  blow.  It  jest  seemed  that  it 
would  lift  the  boulders  out  of  the  ground. 
I  knowed  I  couldn't  foller  the  pinto,  so  I 
started  back  fer  the  bed. 

"  'Then  a  truth  that  made  my  hair  white 
pried  itself  into  my  brain.     I  didn't  have  no 
more  idea  where  that  bed  was  than  a  blind 
[no] 


PAP'S  PINTO 


mole.  I  jest  weakened  then;  an'  shivered. 
I  was  learnin'  a  lesson  that  night  that  I  know 
by  heart  till  yit. 

"'I  wandered  around.  I  had  to.  Every 
time  a  big  gust  would  come  I'd  honker  down 
an'  try  to  shield  as  much  of  me  as  I  could. 
The  parts  that  had  to  take  it  felt  like  they 
was  bleedin'.  An'  dark !  Ye  couldn't  have 
drilled  a  hole  in  the  blackness  with  a  ten- 
pound  hammer  an*  inch  steel.  Where  there 
wasn't  any  cactus  there  was  rocks,  an'  they 
was  slippery  as  all  time.  I'd  fall;  and  it 
took  all  my  nerve  to  keep  down  a  sneakin' 
desire  to  give  it  up.  But  it  was  a  fall  that 
brought  me  luck.  I  went  kerflop,  an'  heared 
a  noise  near  me.  I  knowed  it  was  the  pin- 
to's  hoofs  agin  the  rocks.  I  figgered  the 
saddle  had  ketched  an'  hung  him  up.  An* 
it  had. 

"  '  I  got  him.  He  tried  to  bolt,  but  I  hung 
on  like  a  wood-tick.  I  couldn't  untie  the 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

rope  from  the  saddle  cinch,  so  I  had  to  drag 
the  mantle  an*  pack  the  saddle.  I  set  the 
hoss  to  work  by  makin'  him  trot  around  me, 
figurin'  he'd  let  me  know  if  he  hit  the  blan 
kets  by  raisin'  hell,  an'  he  did.  'Most  got 
away,  but  I  held  on  till  me  an'  the  saddle 
hung  up  in  a  rock  pile  not  far  from  the  bed. 
I  got  back  to  it,  but  it  was  a  mass  of  ice  an' 
partly  covered  with  snow.  Daylight  was 
hours  off  yit,  so  I  wrapped  the  driest  of  the 
blankets  around  me  an'  kept  the  pinto  com 
pany  till  daylight.  I'd  a-killed  him  if  I'd 
dared,  but  I  was  afraid  I  couldn't  pack 
enough  on  my  back  to  git  me  out. 

'The  storm  let  up  when  mornin'  come. 
Soon's  I  could  see  I  got  the  pack  onto  the 
pinto,  an'  pulled  out,  without  eatin'  anything, 
allowin'  to  make  camp  at  the  first  wood  an' 
water  I  run  across. 

'  'Along   about  noon  the  sun  come  out. 
My  clothes  was  a-warmin'  up  some.     The 


PAP'S  PINTO 


pack  was  a-steamin'  like  wet  blankets  al 
ways  do  in  the  sun,  an'  I  was  feelin'  a  little 
more  like  myself.  I  was  sufferin'  a  heap, 
but  awful  thankful  to  git  out  alive.  There 
was  signs  o'  grass  showin'  now  an'  agin,  an' 
I  allowed  that  I  was  soon  goin'  to  find  a  place 
where  I  could  make  another  camp.  The 
thought  of  a  chance  fer  coffee  was  a-makin' 
my  mouth  water — when  the  pinto  got  a 
"wire"  from  the  devil  an'  bolted. 

" '  I  was  so  doggone  sore  an'  stiff  that  I 
wa'n't  quick  enough  to  snub  him,  an'  the 
rope  sizzed  through  my  hands  like  a  hot 
iron.  He  was  gone  with  my  grub  an' 
blankets,  an'  me  God  only  knowed  how  fer 
from  a  camp  or  settlement.  I  started  to 
run  after  him,  knowin'  that  my  life  depended 
on  ketchin'  him,  but  he  disappeared  over  a 
hill  with  everything  lashed  to  his  ornery 
back.  Runnin'  was  mighty  painful  to  me, 
but  I  figgered  it  was  my  last  sprint,  most 

t 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

likely,  an'  I  done  the  best  that  was  in  me. 
I  hiked  up  the  hill  he'd  gone  over,  an*  when 
I  got  to  the  top  I  spots  him  jest  makin' 
the  next  raise  o'  ground,  about  a  quarter 
away,  hittin'  the  high  spots  in  his  effort 
to  leave  me  fer  the  coyotes. 

c  *  Soon's  I  got  my  eye  on  him  I  dropped 
to  one  knee,  took  a  rest  with  my  elbow  agin 
the  other,  drawed  a  bead  on  his  anatomy 
with  my  old  Sharps,  an'  sent  a  .45  a-whistlin' 
into  his  constitution.  He  went  over  in  a 
pile,  an'  I  took  my  own  time  a-gittin'  to  him 
an'  unpackin'. 

'"Whenever  I  hear  a  feller  tellin'  what  a 
friend  to  man  a  hoss  is,  me  an'  memory  takes 
a  little  sneak  back  through  the  years  to  a 
pile  o'  bones  on  the  desert;  where  in  the 
shadders  I  kin  see  the  only  creature  that 
ever  sighed  fer  the  pinto — that  creature  bein' 
a  buzzard.'" 

[  114] 


THE  BULLET'S  PROOF 

BILL  DEETS  laid  a  dry  stick  on  the 
fire  and  spread  his  hands  before  the 
blaze.  "It's  a  mean  cuss  that'll  shoot  a  man 
when  his  hands  are  up,"  he  said.  "Yet  I 
know  a  case  where  it  was  done;  an*  the 
worst  of  it  is  the  murdered  man  had  been  a 
pardner  of  the  feller  that  killed  him.  Put 
them  two  facts  together  an'  prove  'em  on  a 
man;  then  if  he  ain't  fit  for  hell-fire,  the 
devil's  been  slandered. 

"You  remember  when  the  Great  Northern 
train  was  held  up  years  ago  near  Belton,  of 
course?  Well,  Jack  White,  the  leader  of 
the  gang,  got  away.  He  was  supposed  to 
have  hid  in  the  hills.  The  railroad  company 
and  the  Government,  an'  I  reckon  the  State, 
too,  offered  rewards  for  him,  dead  or  alive, 
but  no  one  ever  found  him.  It  was  a  big 
chunk  of  money  that  they  put  up,  but  I 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

forget  just  how  much  it  was.  Around 
five  thousand  dollars,  I  guess. 

"I  was  camped  near  the  South  Fork  of 
the  Flathead.  Twa'n't  far  from  Belton; 
about  three  miles,  mebby.  Yd  been  there 
all  the  summer  and  fall.  The  holdup  was 
along  in  February,  near  as  I  remember 
now.  And  I  was  figuring  on  a  move  as 
soon  as  the  break-up  came  in  the  spring. 
One  night  a  man  came  into  camp.  I  knew 
him  as  soon's  I  set  eyes  on  him.  It  was 
Jack  White.  We'd  known  each  other  over 
on  the  other  side. 

"'What  you  doin'  here,  man?  Don't 
ye  know  there's  big  money  up  for  your  scalp  ? ' 

"'Yes/  he  told  me.  'I  know  they'll  pay 
for  me,  dead  or  alive,  but  I  didn't  figure  you 
was  that  kind  of  a  friend,  Bill.' 

"'I  ain't,'  I  says.  'I  don't  want  no  blood- 
money  no  time,  but  I  don't  want  you  to 
hang  around  here,  neither.  I  want  you 
t  "6] 


THE  BULLETS  PROOF 


to  drift.    I  ain't  seen  700 — not  yet,  any- 
way/ 

"'BO!,' he  says,  'I  ain't  got  a  cent.  I'm 
dean  out  of  grub  and  every  cartridge  k  gone. 
Can't  ye  stake  me  :' 

""There's  some  grub  there.  Steal  it,' 
I  says.  'What  you  shoorin'?' 

'"Forty-five  Colt  an'  40-82  Winchester/ 

"'I  can't  do  nothm' for  you,  Jack,' I  says, 
after  he  told  me.  'Might  take  a  blanket.  I 
ain't  lookin'.  Nights  are  cold.' 

"'I'm  in  a  bad  fix,  Bfll,' he  says.  'Won't 
you  go  down  to  the  vafley  an'  tefl  Cnriey  to 
bring  me  some  ammunition  an*  some  money  ?' 

"'Curiey!'Isays-  'I  wouldn't  trust  that 
man  farther'n  I  could  see  him  through  my 
rifle  sights.* 

"'Iftebby  not,'  he  says,  'but  Curley  is  an 

old  pardner  of  mine.    We  have  set  around 

camp-fires  together.     Besides  that,  he 

me  a  chunk  of  money — borrowed 

["71 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

I'll  trust  him  if  you'll  go  an'  tell  him  where  he 
can  find  me/ 

"I  went.  Curley  said  he'd  come  up  the 
next  day.  I  didn't  want  to  figure  in  it,  so 
I  left  camp  to  hunt  deer.  White  had  left 
it,  too,  an'  had  made  him  a  place  somewhere 
close.  I  didn't  know  just  where,  an'  I 
didn't  want  to  know,  neither. 

"I'll  never  forget  that  day.  I  was  touchy 
as  a  girl.  When  I'd  step  on  snow  that  was 
crusted  the  noise  my  moccasins  made  would 
make  my  back  prickle.  I  couldn't  seem  to 
keep  my  mind  off  Jack  White.  I  jumped  a 
dozen  deer  but  didn't  git  a  shot.  Finally 
I  decided  to  go  back  to  camp.  Something 
seemed  to  pull  me  that  way.  I  hadn't  gone 
far  on  the  back  trail  when  I  heard  a  twig 
pop.  I  stopped  an'  looked  careful.  Then 
I  saw  two  men  coming  up  a  deer  trail.  One 
of  'em  was  Curley.  The  other  feller  was  a 
stranger. 

I  118] 


THE  BULLET'S  PROOF 


"'Mighty  cur'ous  route/  I  thought,  'if 
they're  on  the  square/  Pretty  soon  they 
saw  me,  an'  Curley  got  nervous  with  his 
Winchester. 

" 'Where  you  goin'?'  I  asked. 

"'Coin'  to  arrest  White.  Where  is  he?' 
he  says. 

"How  do  I  know  where  he  is  now?' 
An'  I  looked  him  in  the  eye.  I  made  up  my 
mind  pretty  quick  that  I  stood  to  git  in  bad, 
so  I  turned  an'  tried  to  hunt  agin. 

"They  went  on  toward  my  camp.  I  felt 
rotten.  I  felt  worse'n  I  can  tell  ye;  but, 
you  see,  if  I  cut  in,  I'd  be  guilty  of  something 
er  other.  So  I  tried  to  find  a  deer.  A  half 
hour  that  seemed  lots  longer  went  by. 
Then  I  gave  it  up.  I  just  couldn't  hunt. 

"I  started  for  camp.  Bang!  I  wasn't 
one  hundred  yards  from  the  place  when  I 
heard  a  shot.  'Poor  old  Jack,'  I  thought. 
'They've  got  ye.' 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"They  had,  too.  He  was  lyin'  in  the  trail 
when  I  come  up,  an'  them  two  was  standin' 
by  him.  All  the  mad  I  own  flared  up  in  me. 

"'What  did  you  kill  him  for?  Yer  own 
pardner,  too,  you  skunk/  I  says  to  Curley. 

"'Well— well,'  he  stammers.  'I  told  him 
to  put  up  his  hands,  and  he  wouldn't.  He 
went  for  his  gun.  I  had  to  shoot  quick. 
I  knew  him,  an'  he  was  a  bad  man.' 

"'Was  he?' I  says. 

"Then  I  pulled  Jack  White's  gun  from  its 
scabbard  an'  showed  it  to  'em.  There 
wasn't  a  ca'tridge  in  it. 

"After  that  I  leaned  over  Jack  an'  tried  to 
stick  my  finger  in  the  bullet-hole.  His  arms 
were  down,  an'  my  finger  wouldn't  go  in. 
I  raised  his  arms  up  over  his  head.  My 
finger  slipped  right  into  the  wound.  See?" 


[    120] 


THE  INDIAN'S  GOD 

"TTIDDEN  in  most  folks,  if  not  in  all, 
-*-  -••  there  is  a  sentiment  for  religion, 
because  all  men  are  naturally  religious," 
said  the  Major.  "You  don't  believe  it? 
Well,  they  are,  and  the  tendency  has  been  a 
curse  as  well  as  a  blessing,  for  designing 
prophets  have  led  them  over  crooked  trails. 
And  yet — well,  let  me  tell  you  of  an  old  fel 
low  I  used  to  know. 

"Uncle  Billy  we  called  him  then,  and 
Uncle  Billy  will  do  now.  He  was  an  old 
prospector  and  miner  who  came  to  Montana 
in  the  early  sixties.  When  I  knew  him  he 
was  working  a  little  gold  lead  in  Madison 
county — the  'Camp-Robber,'  he  called  it. 
The  vein  was  small,  but  the  'pay'  was  gold 
and  it  was  'free'  in  the  ore.  So  the  old  fel 
low  worked  it  through  an  arastra,  the  crud- 

[121    ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

est,  and  at  the  same  time  the  surest  way  of 
saving  gold  yet  discovered,  I  reckon. 

"Uncle  Billy  was  a  bachelor,  of  course, 
and  I  used  to  visit  him  often.  He  was  a 
keen-minded  old  man  and  neat  as  a  pin. 
He  had  lived  alone  most  of  his  life  and  was 
somewhat  of  a  crank  because  he  had.  Most 
of  them  are,  you  know.  But  I  surprised 
my  friend  one  Sunday  morning. 

"I  was  near  to  the  camp  when  the  great 
beauty  of  the  day  halted  me  in  the  little 
clearing  near  Uncle  Billy's  cabin.  The  sun 
was  rising  over  the  big  peak  on  the  far  side 
of  the  gulch,  and  his  rays,  like  messengers, 
sped  on  down  the  rough  mountain-side  to 
wake  the  flowers  and  crawling  things  and 
warn  them  of  his  coming.  A  yellowhammer 
drummed  on  the  dead  top  of  a  pine  away  in 
the  wilds,  where,  high  up  in  the  golden  light 
that  glinted  on  his  bright  wing-feathers,  his 
call  woke  the  choirs  in  the  thickets  below. 
[  122  ] 


THE  INDIAN'S  GOD 


And  even  as  the  bird-song  grew  in  volume 
I  felt  ever  more  keenly  the  silence  of  the  great 
open  country. 

"Uncle  Billy,  standing  on  a  mossy  mound 
where  the  bluebells  grew  in  clusters,  was 
watching  the  sun  rise,  and  so  absorbed  was 
he  that  for  long  I  did  not  speak.  Erect,  with 
arms  folded,  bare-headed,  and  silent,  the 
old  man  stood  until  the  flood-light  fell  full 
upon  him;  when  he  murmured  'Amen.' 

"I  was  startled,  but  he  turned  slowly,  and 
without  showing  the  least  surprise,  said: 
'Good  mornin',  friend.  Ye're  early.  Sit 
down  and  we'll  have  a  smoke.' 

"Without  further  speech  he  began  cutting 
tobacco  for  his  pipe,  which  he  filled  and 
lighted.  Then  as  a  wreath  of  the  fragrant 
mist  floated  past  me  he  said: 

"'I  had  an  Injin  pardner  once,  an'  after 
he  had  gone  his  way  all  of  a  sudden  it  came 
to  me  that  he  was  right  in  a  heap  of  things. 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

I  used  to  watch  that  Injin  because  he  was  a 
good  man;  and  from  him  I  learned  some 
queer  things  that  seemed  to  fit  into  my  own 
life — so  I  adopted  'em. 

"'First  of  all  I  noticed  that  every  beauty 
spot  in  nature  was  a  shrine  to  him.  He 
didn't  tell  me  so,  but  I  saw  it  and  felt  it. 
Before  a  brilliant  sunset  or  a  noisy  waterfall 
he'd  stand  in  silent  admiration;  an'  I  learned, 
after  a  while,  that  in  each  case  he  offered  up 
his  prayer  to  The  Great  Mystery.  He  had 
but  one  prayer,  an'  he  told  me  that  one: 
Let  my  children  all  grow  old.  That  was  all, 
an'  it  was  never  varied.  It  made  me 
ashamed  of  myself  an'  my  race.  Once  he 
told  me  that  the  birds  were  little  people, 
an'  after  I'd  learned  to  look  an'  listen,  my 
self,  I  noticed  that  they  had  each  just  one 
sure-enough  song,  an'  some  of  'em  only  a 
single  note.  Then  I  thought  of  his  only 
prayer. 


THE  INDIAN'S  GOD 


' '  I  could  talk  to  you  for  an  hour  about 
things  I  learned  from  that  Injin.  But  he 
was  an  unwilling  teacher,  because  he  seemed 
to  think  that  all  live  things  believe  an'  think 
just  as  he  did.  Once  I  asked  him:  "Who  is 
God  ?"  an'  he  replied:  "The  sun,  the  earth, 
the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  big  trees,  the  peo 
ple,  the  fire,  an'  the  water  is  God.  Some 
times  they  speak  to  me,  an'  I'm  glad  in  my 
heart.  Big  trees  speak  the  loudest  to  me. 
Others  hear  other  things  best." 

: '  He  seemed  surprised  at  my  question — 
seemed  to  think  I  must  be  jokin'  him.  But 
I'm  mighty  glad  he  answered  as  he  did,  for 
it  blazed  a  new  trail  for  me.  I  feel  better 
toward  my  fellows  an'  I  only  pray  for  peace. 
It  took  a  long,  long  time,  but  now  I  know 

"*"The  redman  dares  an  only  prayer; 

One  perfume  has  the  rose; 
When  mornin'  dawns,  the  robin  sings 
The  only  song  he  knows. 

[  125] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

The  silent  are  the  giant  things 
That  make  the  temple  grand 

Amid  a  peace  that  nature  meant 
All  men  should  understand.""9 


BRAVERY 

"T  THINK  Major  Reno  was  a  coward," 

•*•  said  Dick  Mosby  at  the  conclusion  of 
a  discussion  of  the  Custer  fight  on  the  Little 
Big  Horn. 

"Maybe  he  was/'  said  the  Doctor.  "But 
a  man  cannot  help  it  if  he  is  born  a  coward. 
Men  are  brave  because  nature  made  them  to 
be  not  afraid.  It  must  be  harder  to  be  a 
coward  than  to  be  a  brave  man,  especially 
among  other  brave  men.  And,  of  course, 
there  are  degrees  of  bravery.  Some  men 
are  brave  to  rashness.  General  Custer  was 
brave.  Some  say  he  was  rash  in  his 
bravery." 

"What  was  the  bravest  deed  you  ever 
witnessed,  Doctor  ? "  asked  Dick. 

"I  shall  not  have  to  search  my  memory," 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

replied  the  Doctor.  "I  have  never  for 
gotten.  It  was  on  September  13,  1890. 
Hugh  Boyle  had  been  killed  by  Head  Chief 
and  Young  Mule,  Cheyennes.  Trouble  had 
followed  the  killing,  and  the  Indians  had  ad 
mitted  their  guilt.  They  had  offered  to  give 
up  their  ponies  and  all  of  their  worldly  goods 
to  square  the  account,  but  of  course  the 
authorities  would  not  listen.  They  de 
manded  the  surrender  of  Head  Chief  and 
Young  Mule.  They  were  to  be  tried  and 
hanged  if  found  guilty;  and  as  the  Indians 
had  freely  admitted  the  killing  their  execu 
tion  was  a  certainty,  if  they  gave  themselves 
up. 

"The  Cheyennes  believe  that  when  a  man 
dies  his  spirit  leaves  the  body  with  the  last 
breath  of  life.  They  say  that  the  rope  of 
the  hangman  does  not  permit  the  spirit  to 
escape;  that  neither  breath  nor  spirit  can 
get  past  the  rope.  If  the  breath  could  pass, 
[  128] 


BRAVERY 


they  argue,  the  man  would  not  die.  But 
as  it  cannot  the  soul  must  remain  in  the 
body.  This,  of  course,  prevents  a  hanged 
man  from  living  in  the  Shadow  Hills  with 
his  people  who  have  passed.  The  hangman's 
rope  has  a  deep  terror  for  the  red  man  be 
cause  of  this  belief;  and  Head  Chief  and 
Young  Mule  refused  to  be  hanged. 

"The  whole  tribe  agreed  with  them.  The 
Cheyennes  offered  their  all  to  save  them. 
They  would  beggar  themselves  rather  than 
have  the  spirits  of  the  braves  remain  forever 
in  their  dead  bodies.  Runners  were  sent  to 
offer  every  pony  and  every  trinket  to  ap 
pease  the  demands  of  the  white  people. 
The  Indians  did  not  want  battle,  they  said, 
but  they  would  not  consent  to  the  hanging. 
They  could  not  understand  that  property 
value  would  not  pay  for  human  life  that  had 
been  taken. 

"Matters  were  in  a  bad  way,   and  the 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

agent  had  sent  for  soldiers.  A  troop  of  the 
first  cavalry  had  been  sent  to  Lame  Deer. 
I  was  on  my  way  there  on  the  night  of  the 
twelfth.  A  half-breed  Cheyenne  was  with 
me.  His  name  was  Pete.  We  were  driv 
ing  in  a  buckboard  from  Forsyth  to  the 
agency,  having  started  early  in  the  after 
noon. 

"Not  far  from  Ashland  we  heard  the  war- 
drums  beating,  and  Pete  pulled  the  team 
down  to  a  walk.  'By  gar,'  he  said.  'Meb- 
by  she's  mad  now,  dem  Cheyenne.  She's 
dance  it  war  now.' 

"The  camp  was  near  the  road.  I  decided 
to  go  on.  We  drew  near  the  fire  and  stopped 
the  team.  In  the  firelight  two  warriors  were 
dancing  to  the  beating  drums  and  the  voices 
of  singers. 

"  'See  what's  going  on,  Pete,'  I  said,  and 
took  the  reins. 

"The  half-breed  went  to  the  camp.  I 
[  130] 


BRAVERY 


saw  him  enter  the  crowd  about  the  dancers, 
and  then  I  lost  sight  of  him.  The  dance 
was  wild.  The  Indians  had  all  gathered; 
and  while  I  waited  I  saw  two  more  braves 
strip  and  commence  to  dance  with  the 
others.  The  singing  increased  in  volume. 
The  drums  sounded  louder,  and  the  beating 
was  faster.  I  was  beginning  to  be  worried, 
when  I  saw  Pete  coming.  He  was  not  alone. 
The  chief  was  with  him,  and  he  was  in  no 
mood  for  chatting,  either.  He  spoke  to  me 
and  then  to  Pete,  who  repeated  his  words  in 
English. 

"Young  Mule  and  Head  Chief  were  going 
to  die,  he  said.  Word  had  been  sent  to 
Lame  Deer  that  they  would  come  in  when 
morning  came.  They  would  not  be  hanged 
but  would  fight  the  soldiers  until  they  died. 
I  offered  my  hand  to  the  chief  but  he  re 
fused  it,  and  we  drove  away. 

"'She's  mad,  de  chief/  said  Pete.  'Don't 
[131  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

like  it  for  soldiers  comin'.  Better  soldiers 
ain't  comin',  mebby/ 

"'Maybe/  I  said.  But  I  was  mighty  glad 
they  had  come. 

"We  got  to  Lame  Deer  and  found  every 
one  awake  and  making  ready  for  the  Chey- 
ennes.  Many  believed  that  a  battle  be 
tween  the  soldiers  and  the  tribe  was  inevita 
ble.  I  was  somewhat  afraid  that  it  was, 
myself,  because  of  the  dance  and  the  par 
ticipation  of  others  besides  Head  Chief  and 
Young  Mule. 

"But  morning  broke  calm  and  beautiful 
and  quiet.  At  seven  o'clock  Indians  began 
to  appear  on  the  hilltops.  Men,  women, 
and  children  decked  out  in  Cheyenne  finery 
sat  upon  every  point  within  sight  of  the 
agency.  The  bugle  sounded.  The  troop 
of  cavalry  formed  in  line  of  battle.  The 
women  and  children  of  Lame  Deer  left  the 
place  for  the  hills  near  by.  The  Indian  police 
I  132  ] 


BRAVERY 


came  out  and  took  their  position  with  the 
soldiers.  The  stage  was  set.  The  amphi 
theatre  was  filled.  Overhead  the  blue  sky 
was  without  a  cloud.  And  we  waited.  A 
fuzzy  little  yellow  dog  came  out  of  the  agency 
and  trotted  leisurely  along  in  front  of  the 
soldiers.  A  cavalry  horse  nipped  him  on  the 
back  and  he  ran  yelping  down  the  road 
toward  Ashland. 

"Then  a  war-whoop  drowned  the  dog's 
cries.  I  turned  and  saw  two  warriors  come 
dashing  down  the  hill  toward  the  soldiers 
their  beautiful  war-bonnets  trembling  in 
the  wind.  Superbly  mounted  and  riding 
like  devils,  they  charged  straight  at  the 
cavalry.  Bang !  A  cavalry  horse  fell  dead. 
Then  there  was  a  volley  of  shots;  and  Young 
Mule  was  down.  His  riderless  horse  whirled 
and  left  him  not  sixty  yards  from  the  foe. 

"At  fifty  yards  Head  Chief  turned  his 
mount  and  rode  along  the  line  of  cavalry- 

[  133 1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

men,  firing  at  them  as  he  went.  A  soldier 
fell.  A  hundred  bullets  sought  a  mark  in 
the  Cheyenne;  but  he  rode  out  of  range, 
unharmed.  Then  again  he  turned  his  horse 
and  rode  back — back  in  the  face  of  a  troop 
of  cavalry  and  the  Indian  police — back,  I 
tell  you,  singing  his  death-song  and  banging 
away  at  the  soldiers  with  his  Henry  rifle.  A 
hail  of  bullets  greeted  him  as  he  came,  but 
he  rode  on  singing  and  shooting  to  the  very 
end  of  the  line,  untouched !  With  a  yell  of 
defiance  he  wheeled  to  come  again;  and  met 
a  dozen  bullets.  His  horse,  too,  was  killed. 

"From  off  the  hills  where  they  had 
watched,  the  Cheyennes  came  for  their  dead. 
And  chanting  the  tribal  death-song  to  Head 
Chief  and  Young  Mule,  now  safe  in  the 
Shadow  Hills,  they  bore  their  bodies  away. 

"I  believe  a  sneeze  would  have  started  a 
fight  then.  I  was  glad  when  they  had  gone." 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

THE  wind  howled  over  the  treeless 
stretches  and  when  the  sun  went  down 
snow-flurries  pattered  against  the  dirty  panes 
of  glass  in  the  windows  of  the  Marks  and 
Brands  saloon,  sticking  to  the  dingy  corners 
of  the  sash  and  curling  in  little  swirls  on  the 
boardwalk  in  front  of  the  place.  The  small 
sign  of  a  doctor  swung  in  the  gale  with  un 
earthly  creaks  and  groans  from  the  corner 
of  a  building  near  by,  and  lent  lonesomeness 
to  the  deserted  thoroughfare  that  fronted  the 
right-of-way  of  the  young  Great  Northern 
Railway.  Dim  yellow  patches  of  light  told 
the  whereabouts  of  other  places  of  business 
along  the  town's  only  street,  and  down  near 
the  river,  dark  and  forbidding  with  its  pile 
of  wagon-wreckage  and  worn-out  horseshoes, 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

stood  the  Pioneer  Blacksmith  Shop.  The 
light  from  the  windows  of  Joe's  Place  fell 
full  upon  an  open  door  of  the  shop  and  il 
luminated  an  array  of  cattle  brands  that  had 
been  burned  upon  it  as  proof  of  the  crafti 
ness  of  hand  of  Bill  Hardesty,  the  black 
smith,  who  was  dozing  in  a  rickety  chair  in 
the  saloon  next  to  his  place  of  business. 

A  pot-bellied  stove,  stuffed  with  soft  coal, 
stood  a  little  back  of  the  centre  of  Joe's 
Place,  and  just  outside  the  ring  of  light  cast 
by  a  tin-shaded  hanging  lamp.  Its  puffy 
sides,  reddened  in  spots,  glowed  in  the  gloom 
that  was  made  deeper  by  the  ring  of  light, 
and  seemed  to  strain  themselves  in  an  at 
tempt  to  give  the  comfort  of  heat  to  its 
owner's  patrons. 

Grouped  about  a  round  table,  several  men 
were  intent  in  watching  a  game  of  stud- 
poker,  evincing  every  whit  as  much  mystery 
concerning  the  hole-card  of  the  player  near- 

[  136] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

est  them  as  the  interested  one  himself.  A 
thin,  blue,  undulating  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke, 
with  one  quivering  end  bending  downward 
in  an  effort  to  make  connection  with  the 
draught  of  the  stove,  hung  above  the  heads 
of  the  group,  and  almost  hid  a  sign  on  the 
wall  that  warned  "If  You  Cant  Pay,  Dont 
Play." 

The  town  drunkard,  ragged,  red-eyed,  and 
obliging,  leaned  against  the  bar  with  one 
shabby  foot  upon  the  rail  before  it,  ready, 
nay  anxious,  to  applaud  the  witticisms  of 
Joe,  the  proprietor,  or  to  fawn  upon  any  who 
might  loosen  to  buy,  and  at  intervals  sur 
veyed  himself  in  the  fly-specked  mirror 
back  of  the  bar.  Now  and  then  he  read 
justed  his  hat,  cocking  it  on  the  side  of  his 
tousled  head,  only  to  disapprove  of  its  effect 
and  change  it  to  a  new  and  different  angle. 

Joe,  himself,  fat  to  wheeziness,  mopped 
the  bar  of  the  moisture  left  by  the  last  round 
[  137] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

of  drinks,  and  resting  his  dimpled  elbows 
upon  it,  turned  his  attention  to  the  poker 
game.  A  cuckoo-clock  fluttered,  a  tiny  door 
flew  open,  a  wooden  bird  appeared;  ding — 
cuck — oooo,  sounded  the  bell  and  the  bird 
in  the  reek  of  the  room.  Joe  glanced  at  the 
wooden  hands  upon  the  wooden  dial. 
"Eight-thirty,"  he  said.  "Number  One's 
late,  as  usual."  And  the  town  drunkard 
laughed  heartily. 

"Expectin'  somebody,  Joe?"  asked  Pete 
Jarvis. 

"Nope — just  noticed  she  was  more'n  an 
hour  late,  an'  I  wanted  to  get  a  paper  ofFn 
her— that's  all." 

"It's  a  long  time  between,  Joe.  Fetch 
us  somethin',"  said  Pete. 

"What'll  it  be,  boys  ?"  asked  Joe,  bending 
a  glance  at  the  poker  players. 

"The  same  all  'round,"  said  Pete.  And 
Joe  served  them  with  whiskey. 

[  138] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

"Give  the  Mascot  a  drink,  too,  Joe,"  said 
Pete,  "an'  have  somethin'  yerself." 

Returning  to  the  bar  with  the  empty 
glasses,  Joe  set  the  whiskey  bottle  upon  it 
for  the  town  drunkard,  who,  filling  a  glass  to 
the  brim,  turned,  and  with  shaky  hand  that 
slopped  the  liquor,  held  it  toward  his  bene 
factor  a  moment,  then  gulped  its  contents 
with  a  grimace.  "Boooh!"  he  said,  with  a 
shake  of  his  head.  "Booohhh  !" 

"He  jest  natcherly  hates  that  stuff,  Pete," 
said  Joe,  sarcastically,  as  he  wiped  the  bottle 
with  his  hand. 

"Yep,"  said  Pete,  as  he  slyly  peeked  at 
the  very  corner  of  his  hole-card,  "yep,  he 
shure  does.  He  takes  it  for  his  wife's  chil 
blains.  Ante,  Tom,  an*  pass  the  buck." 

A  whistle  sounded  above  the  shriek  of  the 
gale.  "There  she  comes,  at  last,"  said  Joe. 

"Gimme  a  drink  an'  I'll  go  git  you  a  paper 
off'n  her,"  said  the  town  drunkard. 

[  139] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Get  the  paper  first  an*  then  have  yer 
drink,"  said  Joe,  the  child  of  experience,  and 
the  blear-eyed  Mascot  of  Joe's  Place  sprang 
for  the  door.  A  gust  of  wind  that  made 
the  hanging  lamp  flicker  and  swing  dizzily 
screamed  its  defiance  in  the  doorway,  but 
grabbing  his  hat,  the  Mascot  pushed  his 
way  into  the  night.  The  door  shut  with  a 
crash,  and  the  baffled  gale  shook  it  in  im 
potent  protest.  "God!"  said  Joe,  "I'd 
hate  to  be  out  in  that.  It's  a  blizzard,  an' 
a  good  one."  He  crossed  to  the  stove,  and 
taking  the  coal  scuttle,  emptied  its  contents 
into  the  roaring  flames.  A  jagged  chunk 
that  refused  to  enter  the  stove's  door  car 
omed  about  between  the  nose  of  the  scuttle 
and  the  opening,  then  fell  with  a  bang  at 
the  feet  of  the  slumbering  blacksmith,  and  a 
puiF  of  black  smoke  shot  from  the  overfed 
fire  straight  into  his  face. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  tryin'  to  do  to 
[  140  ] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

me?  Want  to  barbecue  me?"  he  cried, 
straightening  himself  in  the  chair.  The 
laugh  of  the  group  at  the  table  amused  him 
and  he  turned,  wiping  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead  with  a  red  bandana  handker 
chief.  "I'll  buy,"  he  said.  "Joe,  set  'em 
up.  By  gum,  I  was  dreamin',  I  guess." 

"I  guess  you  must  have  been,  Bill.  I 
didn't  go  for  to  wake  you,  but " 

The  screech  of  the  brakes  of  Number  One 
reached  the  room.  The  hiss  of  the  steam 
from  the  overdue  train  added  zest  to  the 
wind  a  moment,  and  then  she  was  gone  on 
her  way,  with  her  headlight  groping  through 
the  blinding  sheets  of  fine  snow  in  the  awful 
gale. 

"Three  calls  five,"  said  Pete.  "Ye're 
shy  one  there,  Tom."  The  chip  was  sup 
plied  and  then  the  door  opened.  A  gust  of 
wind  and  a  mist  of  snow  preceded  the  Mas 
cot,  and  behind  him,  with  a  small  hand-bag 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

in  his  gloved  hand,  was  a  stranger  blinking 
in  the  light,  and  breathing  the  stuffy  air  of 
the  place  in  gasps. 

The  town  drunkard  removed  his  hat  and 
tiptoeing  over  the  squeaking  floor,  led  the 
way  to  the  stove.  "Better  warm  yourself, 
stranger,"  he  said.  "Here's  your  paper, 
Joe,"  and  crossing  to  the  bar  he  whispered 
behind  his  shaky  hand,  "Preacher — gimme 
that  drink." 

The  stranger  removed  his  gloves,  unbut 
toned  his  overcoat,  and  spread  his  thin  hands 
to  the  heat  of  the  stove.  "Rather  a  dis 
agreeable  night,  friends,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  group  at  the  table.  There  was  no  accusa 
tion  in  the  glance  that  he  gave  with  his  words, 
although  Pete  was  deftly  gathering  up  the 
cards  when  he  answered: 

"Shure  as  hell  is,  stranger.  Lookin'  fer 
somebody,  be  you  ? " 

"Oh,  no.  No  one  in  particular.  I  am 
I  142] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

the  new  minister  of  the  Episcopal  Church  at 
Glasgow,  and  I  want  to  hold  services  in  your 
little  city  to-morrow,  if  a  way  can  be  found. 
Are  there  many  members  of  our  church  here, 
do  you  know  ? " 

Pete  cleared  his  throat.  "Well,  there's 
John  Tempy.  He's  somethin'  or  other,  but 
darned  if  I  know  just  what  he  is,"  he  said, 
anxious  to  oblige. 

Joe,  fearing  that  unnecessary  profanity 
might  be  indulged  in,  and  not  knowing  that 
the  stranger  had  told  his  business  in  town, 
hastened  from  behind  the  bar,  wiping  his 
hands  upon  his  apron.  He  drew  a  chair  to 
the  stove.  "Have  a  seat,  pardner,"  he  said, 
polishing  the  chair's  seat  with  the  apron. 
"Have  a  seat.  He's  a  preacher,  boys," 
and  thus,  having  given  due  and  timely  warn 
ing,  he  returned  to  the  bar,  where  he  began 
to  busy  himself  with  the  bottles  and  glasses 
there. 

[143] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

The  poker  players  were  cashing  their  chips 
and  the  Mascot,  having  sneaked  his  drink, 
had  taken  his  place  at  the  side  of  his  dis 
covery.  Seeing  that  the  game  was  about  to 
be  discontinued,  and  guessing  the  cause,  the 
minister  said:  "Friends,  I  fear  that  I  have 
interrupted  your  evening's  entertainment, 
and  let  me  say  that  while  I  am  a  minister  of 
the  Gospel,  I  am  neither  a  bigot  nor  a  cad. 
I  know  something  of  the  ways  of  men,  and 
to  do  my  work  in  life,  I  must  be  a  man  among 
them,  or  fail.  If  you  will  tell  me  where  I 
can  find  a  place  to  sleep,  I  will  leave  you,  for 
I  am  tired." 

There  was  silence.  Joe's  cat,  with  bowed 
back,  rubbed  against  the  minister's  leg, 
purring  his  welcome.  Then  Pete  spoke. 
"John  Tempy's  would  be  the  place,  but  An 
nie's  sick.  They  think  mebby  she's  comin' 
down  with  the  smallpox,  so  you  can't  go 
there,  I  reckon.  You  can  bunk  with  me,  if 
ye're  willin'." 

I  144  ] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

"Of  course — of  course,  I'm  willing,  and 
grateful  to  you;  but  do  not  let  me  disturb 
you  here." 

"I'll  take  him  over,"  said  the  Mascot. 
"I'll  take  him  over  to  Pete's  if  you'll " 

"All  right— all  right,"  broke  in  Joe.  "You 
take  him  over."  And  buttoning  his  coat, 
the  minister  followed  the  town  drunkard  to 
Pete  Jarvis's  cabin,  where,  after  building  a 
fire,  the  Mascot  left  him,  and  hurried  to  the 
saloon  for  his  reward. 

"Had  a  notion  to  offer  him  a  hot  toddy," 
said  Joe,  as  he  set  out  the  whiskey  bottle  for 
the  Mascot. 

"Bet  he  wouldn't  a-taken  it,"  said  Tom 
Bodie. 

"Bet  you  a  hoss,  he  would  uf,"  declared 
Bill  Hardesty,  the  blacksmith.  "I  like  that 
feller.  He  ain't  no  slouch  nor  four-flush." 

"So  do  I  like  him,"  said  Pete.  "He 
don't  look  very  well,  to  me.  Where  in  hell's 
he  goin'  to  preach  at,  do  you  reckon  ?" 

i 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Don't  know,"  said  Joe.  "He  can't  have 
Tempy's  store,  'cause  Tempy's  bound  to 
kick  at  havin'  folks  in  there  that  way,  an' 
you  can't  blame  him.  I'd — I'd — say,  do 
you  reckon  he'd  get  sore  if  I  offered  him  a 
chance  to  preach  in  here  ? " 

"No,"  said  Pete.  "Not  that  feller.  Be 
sides,  it's  the  only  place,  unless  he  goes  to  the 
Marks  and  Brands." 

"Say,  Pete,"  said  Joe,  "you  tend  bar  a 
spell.  I'll  slip  over  to  the  Marks  and 
Brands  an'  rib  up  a  crowd  for  that  old  sport, 
an*  we'll  offer  him  this  saloon  in  the  mornin'. 
You  can  tell  him,  yerself,  Pete,  when  you 
bed  down.  Needn't  say  nothin'  'bout  me 
a-makin'  this  roundup,  for  there  ain't  more'n 
a  dozen  or  twenty  men  in  town,  noway.  An* 
there  ain't  no  women  folks  outside  of  Tempy's 
women  an'  the  Mascot's  wife.  They  can't 
come,  if  they  wanted  to. " 

Joe  untied  his  apron,  put  on  his  coat  and 
[  146] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

hat,  and  left  the  place.  He  battled  his 
against  the  storm  to  the  Marks  and  Brands 
and  entered.  Under  the  glare  of  a  sizzling 
gasolene  lamp,  a  dozen  men  were  playing 
cards,  and  several  more  were  ranged  about 
the  billiard  table  upon  which  a  drunken 
sheepherder  lay  asleep  with  several  lighted 
candles,  stuck  in  empty  beer  bottles,  about 
him.  His  matted  beard  had  had  the  atten 
tion  of  those  about  the  table  and  was  be 
decked  with  yellow  ribbons,  filched  from 
cigar  packages,  that  had  been  tied  in  bows 
by  unaccustomed  fingers. 

"Hey,  Joe,  can  you  sing  ?"  called  Kelly'the 
Kid.  "  We  got  a  dead  one  here." 

"No,  Kid,  not  a  lick,"  said  Joe.  "Can  I 
see  you  a  minute,  Jake  ? "  and  the  proprietor 
of  the  Marks  and  Brands  retreated  to  a  cor 
ner  with  his  visitor. 

"Jake,"  said  Joe,  "there's  a  preacher  in 


town." 


[1471 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"The  hell !" 

"Yes,  an'  he's  bedded  down  at  Pete 
Jarvis's." 

"The  hell!" 

"Yep,  an'  he  wants  to  hold  services — to 
preach,  you  know,  to-morrow,  in  this  town; 
so  I'm  goin'  to  offer  him  my  saloon  to  talk 
in— if  he'll  take  it." 

"Know  him?" 

"Nope,  but  he's  all  right.  Come  in  on 
Number  One,  to-night.  I'd  like  it  if  you 
an'  the  boys  would  come  over  to  my  place 
and  hear  that  feller,  a  spell.  Will  you  ?" 

"Shore — shore,  Joe.  'Course,  we'll  come. 
What  time?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I'll  find  out  an'  tell 
you." 

"All  right,  Joe,  we'll  come — all  of  us," 
said  Jake.  "Have  a  little  drink,  Joe?" 
and  the  two  walked  to  the  bar,  where  they 
drank  together. 

[  148] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

"Come  on — the  house,"  called  Joe,  "an' 
have  something  on  me."  He  laid  a  ten-dollar 
bill  on  the  bar.  Excepting  the  card-players 
and  the  sleeping  sheepherder,  everybody 
came  to  the  bar  and  Joe  told  them  his  er 
rand.  "Jake  an'  me'd  like  it,  bully,  if  you'd 
all  come  an'  hear  him,  boys.  It  won't  hurt 
you  none,  an'  I  do  hate  to  see  a  man  cold- 
decked.  I  don't  want  him  to  find  out  that 
I  made  this  rustle,  neither.  It  looks  like 
leadin'  from  a  sneak,  kinder,  but  it's  the 
only  bet  to  get  a  crowd.  Have  another 
drink  on  me,  boys,  an'  come  an'  hear  Mr. — 
Mr. — well,  I'm  damned  if  I  thought  to  ask 
him  his  name,  but  come  anyway.  He's  a 
Tiscopal.  Good-night,  Jake.  Good-night, 
all.  Be  sure  an'  come  over,"  and  Joe  bolted 
into  the  storm. 

Reaching  his  own  saloon,  he  did  not  put 
on  his  apron,  but  relieving  Pete,  called 
every  one  to  the  bar  to  regale  themselves. 

[  149] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Now,  boys,  don't  forget  to  be  on  hand  to 
morrow,  will  you?"  he  said. 

"We'll  be  Johnny-on-the-spot,  Joe — all  of 
us,"  declared  Tom,  as  he  drained  his  glass, 
"an'  now  I  got  to  go  to  bed,  myself."  He 
left  the  saloon  and  one  by  one,  a  start  having 
been  made,  the  patrons  of  Joe's  Place  went 
to  their  beds. 

Joe  put  out  the  hanging  lamp,  and  took 
the  money  from  the  cash-drawer — the  reg 
ular  nightly  warning  to  the  town  drunkard. 

"Gimme  a  nightcap,  Joe,"  whimpered  the 
Mascot. 

"Not  a  drop,"  said  Joe.  "You've  had 
enough  for  to-night,  an'  you  be  on  hand  for 
that  preachin'  to-morrow  or  I'll  break  your 
damned  neck!"  He  took  a  key  from  his 
pocket  and  led  the  way  to  the  door.  "Good 
night,  an'  remember,"  he  said,  as  the  town 
drunkard  went  out  into  the  blizzard. 

Joe  locked  the  door,  and  scratching  a 
I  150] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

match  on  his  trousers,  walked  to  the  back 
of  the  saloon,  shielding  the  blaze  of  the  match 
with  his  hand.  As  the  flame  devoured  the 
last  of  the  stem  he  dropped  it,  and  opened  a 
door  that  let  him  into  a  shabby  bedroom, 
where  he  lighted  a  lamp,  and  tearing  the 
edges  from  a  shirtbox,  sat  down  on  the  bed. 
He  fumbled  in  his  vest  pockets  a  moment, 
and  then  produced  the  stub  of  a  pencil. 
With  this  he  printed  upon  the  white  card 
board  : 

"THIS  BAR  IS  CLOSED  TILL  HE'S 
DONE." 

Then  he  undressed  and  got  into  bed.  The 
blizzard  searched  the  cracks  in  the  building, 
for  it  was  but  a  shack,  and  Joe  listened  to 
the  storm  for  an  hour  before  he  slept. 

Somebody  was  rattling  the  front  door. 
Joe  opened  his  eyes.  It  was  morning  and 
the  bite  of  the  cold  made  him  shudder. 

1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Clink"  went  a  bottle  in  the  saloon;  "pop" 
sounded  the  boards  in  the  building,  and 
again  the  door  was  shaken  with  a  will. 
"All  right — all  right.  In  a  minute !"  called 
Joe  to  the  impatient  ones,  and  hurried  into 
his  clothes.  With  shoes  unlaced  and  shirt 
yet  unbuttoned,  he  unlocked  the  front  door 
to  admit  Pete  and  the  shivering  Mascot. 
"Take  a  drink,  boys,  an*  build  a  fire,"  he 
said,  as  he  hurried  back  to  complete  his 
dressing. 

"I  told  him,  an*  he's  tickled  to  death," 
called  Pete.  "It's  to  be  at  ten-thirty." 

"When  you  get  that  fire  goin',  Mascot, 
you  go  over  an'  tell  Jake  that  the  preachin's 
to  be  at  ten-thirty,  an'  sweep  out  good  an* 
plenty,  too,"  called  Joe  from  his  bedroom. 
"Tell  Jake  I  sent  you.  How  cold  is  it,  I 
wonder.  I  heard  the  bottles  an'  things  a- 
poppin'  in  there,  anyway.  Is  he  up  yet, 
Pete?" 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

V 

"You  bet  he's  up.  Me  an'  him's  had 
breakfast,  too.  He  ain't  no  slouch,  that 
feller,  even  if  he  is  a  preacher." 

The  blizzard  had  spent  itself,  but  in  its 
rage  had  left  the  world  a  stark,  dead  thing — 
all  white  and  cold  and  still.  The  sun's  light 
was  blinding  and  the  keen  in  the  morning 
air  stung  Joe's  face  and  stuck  his  eyelashes 
as  he  trudged  through  the  small  snow 
drifts  to  the  house  of  the  Mascot,  for  break 
fast.  "Good  morning,  Mrs.  Harris,"  he  said 
as  he  stomped  the  snow  from  his  feet  and 
covered  his  ears  with  his  hands.  "Bad 
storm,  wasn't  it  ?  The  coffee  smells  mighty 
good  this  morning.  I'm  sorry  you  can't 
come  to  the  preachin'." 

"Well,  I'm  comin',  Joe,  even  if  it  is  in  a 
saloon  and  even  if  I'm  goin'  to  be  the  only 
woman  there.  This  town's  bad  enough, 
God  knows,  without  making  it  any  worse  in 
His  eyes  by  not  goin'  to — to — to  church 

1 153] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

when  we  have  a  chance,"  she  said  as  she 
placed  Joe's  breakfast  on  the  table. 

"I'm  glad  you're  comin',  Mrs.  Harris. 
It'll  kinder  hold  the  boys  down,  an'  they 
won't  deal  him  no  cards  from  the  bottom. 
Not  that  they  would — but  they  might. 
These  cakes  is  bully,  Mrs.  Harris.  Every 
thing's  fine  an*  tastes  good." 

"You  always  say  that,  Joe." 

"Well,  it's  always  so,  then.  An'  say,  a 
man  that  owes  me  a  bar  bill,  wants  to  pay 
me  in  meat  an'  spuds.  I  can't  never  get 
no  real  money  out  of  him,  noway.  I  told 
him  I'd  take  'em  an'  I'm  goin'  to  fetch  'em 
over  here,  so's  you  can  feed  us  with  'em — 
see  ?  It'll  be  doin'  me  an'  the  feller,  both,  a 
favor." 

Mrs.  Harris  cleared  her  throat.  "Joe," 
she  said,  "there's  been  a  lot  of  bills  you  col 
lected  that  way — bad  debts,  you  called  'em. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  you  won't  let  it  go  on  your 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

board,  an*  it  makes  me  feel  that  me  an' 
Lem's  livin'  ofFn  you." 

"Well,  you  ain't,"  said  Joe.  "I'd  starve 
in  this  town,  if  it  wasn't  for  this  place  here, 
an*  besides,  I'd  lose  the  bills  I  get  in  that 
way,  if  I  didn't  have  no  place  to  slough  the 
truck.  Don't  you  worry,  Mrs.  Harris,  there's 
plenty  profit  in  it,  for  me.  I  got  to  be  goin', 
an'  get  ready  for  the  big  doin's,"  and  fear 
ing  that  his  bounty  might  call  forth  more 
thanks,  he  left  the  house. 

Mrs.  Harris,  a  woman  of  fifty,  turned  from 
the  breakfast-table  with  the  dishes  in  her 
hands,  and  sighed,  as  she  deposited  them  in 
the  kitchen.  "If  there  ever  was  a  good, 
honest  man,  it's  Joe  Prentiss,"  she  said. 
Then  she  washed  and  put  away  the  dishes 
and  tidied  herself  to  attend  the  preaching. 

Joe,  back  at  the  saloon,  which  had  been 
swept  clean  by  Pete  and  the  Mascot,  went 
to  his  room,  and  bringing  out  the  cardboard, 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

set  up  his  sign  back  of  the  bar.  "That  goes 
as  it  looks,"  he  said.  "Have  you  told  Jake 
the  time  of  the  preachin',  Mascot  ?" 

"Not  yet.     Gimme   a   drink   an'   I'll  go 


now." 


"Well,  help  yourself.  It's  the  last  ye'll 
get  till  the  sermon's  done.  Now,  go  an* 
tell  Jake,  an'  everybody  you  see.  Tell  'em — 
tell  'em — well,  tell  'em,  after  it's  all  over 
with,  the  drinks  will  be  on  me — after  the 
preacher's  gone." 

An  hour  afterward  men  began  to  arrive. 
They  came  singly  and  in  pairs,  and  sheepishly 
tried  to  make  light  of  the  affair,  but  read 
ing  Joe's  sign,  and  noting  the  serious  look  on 
his  face,  they  soon  left  off  any  attempt  at 
hilarity,  and  when  Mrs.  Harris  entered,  Pete 
said:  "I'll  go  an'  git  him,  now,  Joe." 

"Take  that  dog  out  with  you,  Pete,"  said 
Joe,   and  his  voice  was   solemnly  pitched. 
"Have  this  chair,  Mrs.  Harris." 
[  156] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

As  the  woman  seated  herself,  instinctively 
every  hat  in  the  place  was  removed,  and  a 
stillness  crept  upon  the  company  there. 
The  sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  win 
dows  and  Tom  Bodie  rubbed  the  lighted 
end  of  his  cigar  against  his  chair,  to  put  it 
out. 

"Good  morning,  friends,"  said  the  cheery 
voice  of  the  minister.  His  eyes  glanced 
about  the  room  and  fell  upon  the  sign  back 
of  the  bar.  Then  his  gaze  sought  the  pro 
prietor,  just  a  moment,  but  Joe's  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  the  floor.  The  stranger  shook 
hands  with  every  one  there,  and  spoke  es 
pecially  to  Mrs.  Harris,  thanking  her  for  her 
presence.  Then,  for  an  hour  he  preached  of 
life,  and  the  simple-heartedness  of  those  be 
fore  him  inspired  him  to  touch  them  deeply. 
There  was  no  sting,  no  chastisement,  in  his 
words.  They  only  felt  the  man's  thanks  for 
their  presence  there.  With  his  appeal  for 
[1571 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

righteousness  was  coupled  an  acknowledg 
ment  of  their  hospitality  and  their  respect 
for  him,  a  stranger,  preaching  to  men  of 
many  creeds  on  a  bitter  winter  morning. 
"When  we  shall  have  known  each  other  for  a 
little  time,  I  feel  sure  that  mutual  good  will 
come  to  us,  for  I  need  your  help  and  your 
lessons  to  aid  me.  And  perhaps  I  may  help 
you,  not  only  as  a  minister,  but  as  a  friend," 
he  said  in  closing. 

Joe,  hat  in  hand,  began  to  tiptoe  among 
the  men.  The  clink  of  silver  drew  the  at 
tention  of  the  minister,  who  was  talking  to 
Mrs.  Harris. 

"Just  one  moment,  please,"  he  called. 
Joe  stopped  in  his  tracks,  his  fat  face  red 
to  the  ears. 

"I  appreciate  your  kindness,  but  let  us 
wait  until  we  have  established  ourselves  in 
some  organized  effort  in  church  work  be 
fore  we  take  up  a  collection.  Then  we  shall 

[  158] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

have  a  use — a  direct  cause  for  the  money. 
Don't  you  think  that  would  be  the  better 
way?" 

"I  reckon  it  would,  mebby,"  said  Joe. 
"You  can  come  here  any  time  you  want  to, 
pardner." 

"Thank  you,  and  all  of  you,"  said  the 
minister,  as  he  walked  outside  with  Mrs. 
Harris. 

Joe  took  down  the  sign  from  behind  the 
bar,  and  tying  his  apron  about  his  waist, 
said:  "Come  on,  everybody,  an'  have 
somethin'.  I  am  mighty  glad  you  come." 

"Boys,"  he  said,  after  the  drinking  had 
ceased,  "that  man  said  a  whole  lot  to  us  that 
is  true.  An'  he  didn't  fork  no  high  hoss, 
neither.  I  hope  he  comes  again." 

"Me,  too,"  said  Pete. 

"Now,"  continued  Joe,  "this  town  is 
tough.  The  boys  come  in  off'n  the  range, 
shoot  up  the  place,  an'  fight  like  hell.  You 
[  159] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

all  know  it  an*  I  know  it.  We  ain't  decent 
an'  quiet  like  we  ort  to  be.  How  many 
women  is  they  in  this  town  ?  Just  four, 
countin*  a  couple  of  kids.  I  ain't  countin' 
them  that's  over  across  the  river;  not  but 
what  they're  as  good  as  the  most  of  us,  but 
you  can't  count  'em  along  with  the  others, 
hardly.  No  more'n  you  can  count  us  along 
with  that  preacher.  I  think  we'd  better 
organize  ourselves,  an'  elect  somebody  judge. 
Call  him  a  police  judge,  or  any  kind  of  a 
judge;  as  long  as  we  all  back  him  up  in  what 
he  says,  it  don't  make  no  difference  what  we 
call  him.  Let  him  fine  hell  out  of  fighters. 
Let's  all  be  for  law  an'  order  in  this  town  from 
now  on.  I  don't  have  to  point  out  the  times 
when  we  needed  'em  both  mighty  bad." 

"The  town  ain't  incorporated,  Joe,"  said 
a  voice. 

"I  don't  care  if  it  ain't,"  said  Joe.  "We 
are  able  to  run  it  an'  nobody's  a-goin'  to 
[  160] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

kick  if  we  copper  all  fight-bets.  Let's  ap 
point  somebody  judge  right  now  while  we're 
all  here  to  have  a  hand  in  it.  Then  when 
anybody  gets  fighty  an'  wants  to  go  to  war, 
we'll  arrest  him,  an'  the  judge  will  fine  him 
good  an'  plenty.  Enough  to  take  the  fight 
out'n  him." 

"Where's  the  jail,  Joe?"  asked  Pete. 

"We  can  use  the  root-house,"  said  Joe. 
"But  we  won't  want  a  jail  if  they  find  out 
they're  goin'  to  be  fined  for  fighting.  That's 
our  big  trouble — is  the  fights.  Let's  try  it, 
boys." 

"All  right,"  said  Pete.  "I  nominate  Bill 
Hardesty  for  judge." 

The  blacksmith  protested.  "I  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout  law.  I'm  busy  an'  I  won't 
have  nothin'  to  do  with " 

"All  in  favor,  say  I,"  called  Joe.     "The 
I's  have  it.    Judge  Hardesty,  have  a  drink 
with  your  feller  citizens." 
[  161  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

That  afternoon  when  Number  Three 
stopped  at  the  station,  two  young  men  got 
off  the  train,  and  crossing  the  street  to  Joe's 
Place,  stood  for  a  moment,  watching  the  de 
parting  coaches,  ere  they  entered. 

"Can  you  tell  us  where  Mr.  McLeod's 
ranch  is  ?"  asked  one  of  the  young  men  of 
Joe. 

"—Sandy  McLeod  ?"  asked  Joe. 

"Mr.  Kenneth  McLeod,"  said  the  young 
man.  "He's  a  sheepman." 

"That's  Sandy,"  said  Joe.  "Yes,  he's 
forty  miles  north  of  here.  Used  to  be  the 
old  Bar  Four,  cow  ranch.  I  used  to  ride  for 
that  iron,  myself.  You  bet  I  know  where 
it  is." 

"Is  he  in  town  to-day  ?" 

"No,"  said  Joe.     "Have  a  little  smile  ?" 

"We  don't  drink,  thank  you,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"Well,    stay    right    with    it,"    said    Joe. 
[  162] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

"Make  yourselves  to  home  here.     Sandy'll 
likely  be  in,  if  he's  expectin*  you." 

"We  are  going  to  herd  sheep  for  him," 
explained  the  young  man,  "my  brother  and 
I.  We  are  from  Ohio.  Mr.  McLeod  ex 
pects  us."  And  Sandy  came  that  evening, 
and  took  the  young  herders  away. 

June  had  come  with  its  soft  leaves  and 
prairie  flowers.  The  range,  an  endless  roll 
ing  stretch  of  tender  green,  fattened  the  great 
herds  of  cattle  and  sheep,  and  with  its  gentle 
breezes  and  bird  song,  proclaimed  itself  a 
bountiful  paradise. 

The  clang  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer 
resounded  through  the  town,  and  before  the 
shop  where  Bill  Hardesty  sweated,  were 
tied  many  horses  awaiting  their  turn  for  new 
shoes.  A  hobo,  tramping  his  way  through 
the  land,  had  been  hired  temporarily  as 
helper,  and  so  throughout  the  long  days  and 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

even  into  the  night,  the  blacksmith  labored; 
not  only  for  the  pay  in  money,  but  to  oblige. 
A  pair  of  bluebirds,  ignoring  the  noise  of 
Bill's  trade,  had  builded  a  nest  in  a  box  under 
the  eaves  of  the  roof  of  the  shop  with  much 
fluttering  and  carolling. 

The  steel  rails  on  the  slightly  graded  right- 
of-way  reached  hungrily  toward  the  horizon 
east  and  west,  shimmering  in  the  sun's  heat, 
dipping  mysteriously  into  the  phantom 
waters  of  a  mirage-lake;  then  out  and  on 
again  until  they  seemed  to  meet  where  the 
sky  came  down  to  the  grass-tops.  Bending 
over  his  anvil,  a  white-hot  horseshoe  in  his 
tongs,  Bill's  hammer  descended  once,  and 
then  was  hurled  at  Tempy's  tomcat  that  was 
creeping  toward  a  bluebird  upon  the  ground. 
Stuffing  the  horseshoe  back  into  the  fire,  he 
went  outside  to  recover  his  hammer,  and 
met  Pete  Jarvis.  "Damn  that  cat,"  he  said 
as  he  rubbed  the  face  of  his  hammer  against 

[  164] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

his  leathern  apron.  "Say,  Pete,  what'll  I 
do  with  that  fine-money?  I  got  sixty  dol 
lars  now.  I'll  kill  that  cat  of  Tempy's, 
yet." 

Pete  thought  a  moment,  removed  his  hat 
and  scratched  his  head.  "Bill,"  he  said, 
"you  ought  to  have  a  liberry." 

"Liberry  ?"  said  Bill,  still  watching  the  cat. 

"Yes,"  said  Pete,  " a  law  liberry.  It  would 
look  a  heap  more  reg'lar,  Bill.  Send  away 
an5  get  you  some  law  books.  Get  you  a 
liberry." 

"I  wouldn't  have  no  idee  where  to  send, 
Pete.  You  take  the  darn  money  an5  send 
an'  git  them  books  for  me,  will  you  ? " 

"Shure— I'll  do  the  best  I  can,"  and  taking 
the  sixty  dollars,  Pete  went  over  to  Joe's 
Place  and  bought  a  drink.  That  night  he 
spent  the  money  with  the  unsuspecting  judge 
and  the  rest  who  happened  in.  It  was  a 
glorious  evening,  and  Joe  wondered  at  Pete's 

[  165] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

sudden  affluence,  but  it  was  without  his 
province  to  ask  questions;  so  the  sixty  dol 
lars  went  into  his  till. 

The  library  came:  donated  codes  by  the 
State  of  Montana,  in  the  interest  of  law  and 
order.  Pete  took  the  two  heavy  volumes  to 
the  blacksmith  shop.  "Here  they  be,  Bill," 
he  said. 

"Say,  you  don't  reckon  I'll  ever  read  'em, 
do  you?"  asked  Bill,  as  he  rubbed  the  soil 
from  his  hands  and  began  to  turn  the  thin 
pages. 

"Hell,  no,  but  it's  the  looks  of  'em  here, 
Bill.  When  we  fetch  a  man  here  an'  he 
sees  them  books,  he'll  dig  up  easier — heaps 
easier.  Ain't  they  fine — them  books?  I'll 
make  you  a  box  to  keep  'em  in,  where  they'll 
show,"  and  he  did. 

"Shore  cost  money,  don't  they  ?"  said  Bill, 
as  he  surveyed  the  books  in  the  box  on  the 
dingy  wall.  "Well,  the  disturbers  bought 
[  166] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

'em.  We  didn't.  It  was  their  own  money 
that  paid  for  them  books  as  shore's  the  devil's 
a  pig." 

It  was  not  long  until  the  fund,  exhausted 
by  the  purchase  of  the  library,  began  to 
sprout  anew,  however.  Pete's  readiness  to 
arrest,  and  Bill's  anxiety  to  fine  disturbers  of 
the  peace,  had  nourished  the  new  beginning 
into  something  quite  substantial,  when,  one 
day,  in  haling  a  drunken  cow-puncher  be 
fore  his  honor  in  the  blacksmith  shop,  the 
self-appointed  city  marshal  was  roughly 
handled. 

After  the  cowboy  had  been  relieved  of  ten 
dollars  and  had  gone  his  way  swearing  ven 
geance,  Pete  wiped  the  blood  from  his 
bruised  nose  upon  the  back  of  his  hand  and 
gazed  at  the  stain  through  a  rapidly  closing 
eye.  "Jest  look  at  me,  Bill,"  he  said. 
"That  feller  was  on  the  prod  an'  went  to 
war  from  the  jump." 

[167] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Well,  he  paid,  didn't  he?"  asked  Bill,  as 
he  laid  the  greenback  in  the  box  with  the 
fines  and  placed  a  toe-calk  upon  it. 

"He  didn't  pay  me,"  declared  Pete.  "I 
don't  know  who  I'm  workin'  for,  an'  right 
here's  where  I  find  out.  I  ain't  goin'  to  tie 
into  every  drunk  in  this  town  single-handed, 
no  more,  without  knowin'  whose  iron  I'm 
ridin'  for,  Bill.  It's  too  damn  hard  on  the 
eyes.  Nobody  works  for  nothin' — not  even 
preachers,  an'  I  won't,  neither." 

"I  don't  git  no  pay,  do  I  ?"  asked  Bill. 

"You  get  it  all,  don't  you  ?  An'  your 
job  ain't  liable  to  leave  yer  relations  a-won- 
derin'  if  you  was  buried  decent,  is  it  ?  Hell, 
man,  let's  divide.  Let's  cut  it  two  ways. 
I  round  'em  up  an'  you  brand  'em.  That's 
only  fair,  ain't  it  ? " 

Bill's  eyes  opened  wide.  "Say,"  he  said, 
stepping  close  to  Pete  and  looking  into  his 
battered  face,  "is  this  our  money — this  here 
fine-money?" 

[  168] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

"'Course  it  is,19  said  Pete.  "We  work  for 
it,  don't  we  ?  Who  else  is  in  on  it,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  What  we  earn  is  ours,  ain't  it  ? 
It  would  be  a  hell  of  a  world  if  it  wasn't, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"I  didn't  know  whose  money  it  was,  Pete. 
If  it's  ours,  I'll  divide,  of  course.  I'll  cut 
it  with  you."  And  he  divided  the  fund  on 
the  spot.  "Let's  go  over  to  Joe's.  I'm  done 
for  to-day,  anyhow." 

"What's  the  matter  with  this  town,  Joe  ?" 
asked  Jake,  of  the  Marks  and  Brands  saloon, 
of  the  proprietor  of  Joe's  Place,  one  day  in 
the  fall.  "If  it  wasn't  for  Pete  Jarvis  and 
Bill  Hardesty,  an'  a  few  of  the  regulars,  we'd 
starve.  They  don't  seem  to  come  into  this 
town  any  more — I  mean  the  cow-punchers 
and  the  sheepherders.  The  town's  dead, 
awful  dead." 

"I've  noticed  it,  too,  but  mebby  business 
[169] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

will  pick  up  now  that  the  busy  season's  over 
on  the  range  and  ranches.  Tempy's  kickin', 
too,  so  I  reckon  it's  an  even  break  all  around," 
said  Joe.  "But  I've  noticed  it. — Number 
Two's  wrecked.  Hear  about  it  ?" 

"No." 

"Yes,  she's  in  the  ditch  somewhere  west 
of  here.  Won't  be  no  train  till  to-morrow." 
The  sound  of  singing  came  to  them  from  Joe's 
Place,  and  Jake  bent  an  inquiring  glance 
upon  the  proprietor. 

"Drummers,"  he  said.  "One  of  'em  sells 
shoes  an'  the  other  shirts.  They  wanted  to 
get  out  on  Number  Two,  but  she's  wrecked, 
so  now  they're  havin'  a  spree." 

"Who's  them  two,  there?"  and  Jake 
nodded  toward  the  two  young  men  who  had 
arrived  in  the  early  spring  and  had  gone  to 
work  for  McLeod. 

"They  been  herdin'  for  Sandy.  First 
time  they  been  in  town  since  last  spring. 
[  170] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

Must  be  fairly  fat  now,  but  they  don't 
drink — neither  of  'em." 

"Well,  I  got  to  be  goin'.  I  hope  things 
pick  up,"  said  Jake,  as  he  turned  toward  the 
Marks  and  Brands. 

Joe  entered  his  own  saloon,  where  "  Bonnie 
Annie  Laurie"  was  being  butchered  by  the 
two  travelling  salesmen,  with  their  arms 
tight  around  the  town  drunkard.  The  two 
young  men,  having  visited  the  station,  had 
learned  the  fate  of  Number  Two,  and  having 
no  other  place  in  which  to  loaf,  came  to  Joe's. 

"  Welcome,  s-s-strangers.  Wei — come. 
Have  a  dddrink,"  and  the  salesman  wearing 
a  derby  hat  hurried  to  lead  the  young  men 
to  the  bar. 

"No,  thanks;  we  don't  drink,"  said  one  of 
the  boys. 

The  salesman  stopped,  let  go  of  the  hand 
he  held,  and  swaying  slightly,  looked  ear 
nestly  at  the  speaker  a  moment. 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Tha — sa  goo  wand — don  drink.  I — I 
nev  heard  tha-wan  f-fore.  S — s-new — bran' 
nnew.  Ha-ha-ha — don  d-drink.  I'm  g-goin* 
mem-member  zat-wan.  Come  on  and  have 
som-som-sing  wiz  sus,  fr-friends  tha  don-don 
drink." 

"No,  thank  you." 

"I  in-inshist." 

"No." 

"Wan-na  in-insult  me  an*  my  f-f-frens? 
Hey,  wa-na?" 

"No,  but  we  don't  drink." 

"I  inshist.     Barkeep,  set  'em." 

"No." 

Wildly  the  fellow  struck  at  the  young 
man,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  there 
was  a  fight — three  against  two;  but  the  two 
were  sober.  Chairs  were  broken,  a  window 
crashed,  and  Joe  was  running  from  behind 
the  bar  when  Pete  entered. 

"What's    a-goin'    on    here!"    he    yelled. 
[  172] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

"Stop  it!"  and  he  struck  right  and  left 
with  his  fists.  With  Joe's  help,  the  battle 
was  soon  ended. 

"Come  on,  all  of  you,"  said  Pete.  "You're 
under  arrest." 

The  prisoners,  all  talking  at  once,  followed 
Pete  to  the  blacksmith  shop,  where  Bill  was 
fighting  a  broncho  and  swearing  at  the  top 
of  his  voice.  The  interior  of  the  shop  was 
hidden  by  a  cloud  of  dust  when  Pete  entered 
with  his  prisoners.  The  broncho,  at  last 
conquered,  was  breathing  heavily,  blowing 
dust  from  the  floor  at  every  gasp,  when, 
hearing  the  babble  of  the  visitors,  the  terri 
fied  horse  struggled  fiercely,  thrashing  his 
head  against  the  dirt  floor  of  the  place. 
"Whoah,  damn  you.  Lay  still!"  and  the 
perspiring  blacksmith  turned  to  survey  the 
group  of  callers. 

"Can't  monkey  with  'em  now,  Pete.  I'm 
busy.  Got  to  git  some  shoes  on  that 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

ornery  brute  there.  He's  wilder'n  a 

grizzly's  dream  an'  meaner'n  a  coyote. 
Fetch  'em  back  by  an'  by.  What's  the 
charge?" 

"Fightin',  judge,"  said  Pete. 

"All  of 'em?" 

"Yes,  the  whole  caboodle." 

"If  these  two  fellows  had  taken  a  drink 
when  we  asked  them  to,  there  wouldn't 
have  been  any  row.  They  are  the  real  dis 
turbers,  judge,"  said  the  salesman  with  the 
derby  hat,  suddenly  sobered.  "We  were 
having  a  good  time,  when  these  two  butted 
in  and  insulted  us." 

"That's  the  truth,"  said  Pete.  "Them 
two's  to  blame  for  this,  judge.  I  don't  aim 
to  take  no  sides.  They  been  herdin'  sheep 
for  Sandy  McLeod  since  last  spring  an'  ain't 
been  to  town  once  in  that  whole  time.  Not 
since  they  come  to  the  country." 

The  judge  caught  the  suggestion  in  Pete's 
[  174] 


WHAT  FOLLOWED  A  SERMON 

words.  "Whoah,  damn  you,"  he  cried,  as 
he  turned  to  tighten  a  rope  that  held  the 
broncho.  Then  facing  the  prisoners  he 
asked:  "Did  you  refuse  to  drink  when  the 
gentleman  asked  you  to?" 

"We  don't  drink,"  said  both  the  young 
men. 

"Well,  you  disturbed  the  peace  of  this 
town — that's  all.  I  fine  you  twenty-five 
dollars  apiece." 

"There's  no  law  on  earth  that  enforces  a 
man  to  drink  against  his  will,"  declared  one 
of  the  young  men,  hotly.  "  I'll " 

"Pay  up  or  git  locked  up.  I'm  busy,  an* 
that's  the  law  in  this  country.  It's  in  that 
there  biggest  book — about  the  middle,  some 
place.  You  can  read  it  fer  yerself,  if  you 
want  to —  Whoah  !  damn  you,  whoah  ! " 

"Of  course  it's  the  law,"  declared  the  sales 
man.  "I  live  in  this  State  and  I  know, 
judge." 

[  1751 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Pay  up  or  I'll  throw  you  in,"  said  Pete, 
and  the  fifty  dollars  were  paid. 

Night  came,  and  then  the  day,  which 
brought  the  passenger-train  headed  East. 
The  young  men  and  the  travelling  salesmen 
got  aboard  without  speaking,  and  Joe  went 
over  to  the  Marks  and  Brands.  "Jake," 
he  said,  "Pete  an'  Bill's  goin'  too  strong. 
It's  hurtin'  the  town.  Let's  us  get  together 
an'  fire  'em." 


[  176] 


CRANKS 

'"ir^HE  tamaracks  were  turning  yellow 
•*•  when  Jim  Turner  and  Sank  Whet- 
ford  began  cutting  logs  with  which  to  build 
their  cabin  on  Indian  Creek.  The  site 
chosen  for  the  cabin  was  a  natural  park — 
early  to  catch  the  sun's  light  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  blessed  with  his  last  rays  ere  he 
bade  good-by  to  the  range  at  evening.  The 
dark  firs  and  spruce  trees  retained  their 
usual  hues,  and  in  the  golden  sunlight  of 
Montana's  fall,  made  a  fitting  background 
for  the  brilliant  orange  of  the  tamarack 
needles,  so  soon  to  fall  and  mark  each  deer- 
trail  a  gilded  way. 

Jim   and   Sank  were  trappers,   and  had 

spent  their  lives  apart  from  other  men.     It 

was  during  a  spree  in   the   early   summer 

that   they   had    met    and    discovered    deep 

I  177] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

friendship,  and  they  had  contrived  to  spend 
much  time  together  ever  since.  At  Jake's 
saloon,  or  at  the  store  at  the  Crossing,  they 
had  spent  many  hours  planning  to  winter 
together,  and  Indian  Creek  had  been  de 
cided  upon,  months  before.  Jim's  camp  had 
been  a  mile  up  the  stream  from  the  store; 
while  Sank's  tent  had  adorned  the  land 
scape  a  mile  below  it.  One  day  Jim  said: 
"Sank,  better  move  up  to  my  camp.  We 
kin  plan  an'  talk  a  heap  better.  I'd  like 
fer  to  have  ye  near  me,  anyhow." 

"All  right,  Jim,"  said  Sank.  "I'll  ketch 
up  the  hosses  in  the  mornin'  an'  move  up." 
And  he  did. 

He  pitched  his  tent  near  that  of  Jim's, 
and  one  fire  served  both.  Each  had  his  own 
tent,  and  Jim  cooked  and  ate  his  meals  when 
and  as  he  pleased.  So  did  Sank.  The 
friendship  ripened  with  the  passing  of  sum 
mer,  and  when  the  fall  began  to  turn  the 

[178] 


CRANKS 


leaves  yellow,  and  the  ducks  and  the  geese 
were  flying  southward,  Jim  and  Sank  bought 
their  supply  of  grub,  ammunition,  and  to 
bacco,  and  set  out  for  Indian  Creek. 

The  sound  of  their  axes  woke  the  sleeping 
echoes  in  the  wilderness,  and  log  after  log 
of  the  dry,  straight,  and  plentiful  tama 
racks  were  dragged  to  the  growing  cabin, 
until  it  was  completed.  Then  Sank  took 
the  horses  back  to  the  valley  for  the  winter, 
and  while  he  was  away,  Jim  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  interior  of  the  cabin,  building 
a  fireplace  in  a  corner. 

When,  ten  days  later,  Sank  returned  from 
the  valley,  Jim  led  him  to  the  fireplace,  and 
pointing  with  pride  at  the  fire  that  was 
snapping  gayly  there,  said:  "See  her  draw, 
Sank.  Green  wood's  jest  duck  soup  fer  it." 

"She's  shore  some  ol'  honey,  Jim,"  said 
Sank.  "I  brought  up  a  little  drop  of  liquor; 
hev  a  little  snort?" 

[  179] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Shore  I  will.  Here's  to  us,  Sank,"  and 
Jim  took  a  long  pull  from  the  flask.  "What 
do  ye  think  of  them  shelves,  and  our  rifle- 
rack,  hey,  pardner  ? " 

"Bully,  Jim,  bully.  Guess  I'll  hev  a 
little  smile,  myself,"  and  Sank  took  his  turn 
at  the  flask.  Then  he  set  it  upon  one  of  the 
new  shelves.  "Comfortable  an'  fine's  frog's 
hair,  in  here,"  he  declared,  and  Jim's  eyes 
glistened  at  Sank's  every  approving  glance. 

"Good  range  where  ye  left  the  hosses, 
Sank?"  asked  the  proud  Jim. 

"You  bet,  an'  I  pulled  off  them  shoes  that 
was  on  that  roan  hoss  of  yours.  Reckoned 
you'd  want  'em  off,"  said  Sank. 

"Bully  fer  you.  I  was  intendin'  to  ask 
ye  to  take  'em  off,  but  I  forgot  it.  When  a 
feller  has  a  pardner  that's  like  you,  he  don't 
have  to  think  of  everything  himself.  You 
know  what  ye're  doin'  all  the  time,"  said 
Jim,  as  he  filled  his  pipe.  "Ye're  a  born 
f  180  1 


CRANKS 


mountainman,  Sank.  That's  what  you  be. 
I'm  most  awful  damned  glad  I  met  up  with 
ye,"  and  Jim  offered  his  horny  hand  to  his 
partner,  who  shook  it  warmly. 

"Dang  yer  ol'  hide,  Jim,"  said  Sank,  as 
he  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  "I  been 
as  lonesome  as  a  bullfrog  in  Lake  Superior, 
in  these  hills,  but  it's  over  with,  Jim.  It's 
a  blind  trail  now.  Let's  finish  that  flask  an' 
turn  in,  pardner.  We  been  a-trapesin'  these 
hills  alone  fer  twenty-five  years.  Now  we're 
pardners  fer  keeps,  me  an'  you." 

There  was  a  scramble  to  build  the  morning 
fire  and  cook  the  breakfast.  "You  mustn't 
try  to  do  it  all,  Sank,"  said  Jim. 

"Don't  cal'late  to,"  said  Sank.  "There's 
plenty  fer  the  both  of  us  to  do,  I  reckon." 

After  breakfast  they  began  cutting  wood 

for  use  when  the  snows  should  come,  and 

day  after  day  the  pile  grew  until,  a  week 

later,  Jim  declared  there  was  enough  to  last 

[  181  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

till  the  grass  started  in  the  spring.  "I'm 
shore  tickled  we  met  up  with  each  other, 
pardner,"  said  Jim,  as  he  stuck  his  axe  in 
a  stump  near  the  cabin.  "Never  did  find  a 
man  I  could  git  along  with — that  wasn't  a 
crank." 

"Well,  I  shore  ain't  no  crank,"  declared 
Sank. 

"I  know  ye  ain't,  an'  I  ain't,  neither.  Not 
by  a  damned  sight.  I  don't  like  'em.  I 
can  tell  'em,  always.  I  know  'em  soon's  I 
set  my  eyes  on  'em.  They're  like  the  wood- 
mice — all  look  alike.  There's  Hank  Jen 
nings — hell,  I'd  as  soon  camp  with  a  he- 
grizzly  bear  as  him.  Always  a-growlin' 
'round,  an'  as  lazy  as  a  chilled  rattlesnake." 

"I  started  to  winter,  once,  with  ol'  Bill 
Henry,"  said  Sank,  whittling  some  shavings 
with  which  to  build  a  fire  in  the  cabin. 

"Oh  my!— ha-ha-ha!"  Jim's  sides  shook 
with  laughter. 


CRANKS 


"Yes,  I  did,"  confessed  Sank,  lighting  the 
shavings. 

"Ye  poor  devil !  Oh,  Lord !  Bill  Henry ! 
How  long  did  it  last  ?" 

"Oh,  'bout  a  month,  I  reckon.  That 
buck  was  fat,  wasn't  he  ? "  said  Sank,  as  he 
cut  steaks  from  the  hind  quarter  of  a  fat  deer. 

Then,  one  night,  it  snowed.  A  foot  of  it 
covered  the  mountains.  "She's  here,  Jim," 
said  Sank,  as  he  opened  the  cabin  door  at 
daylight.  "About  a  foot  of  it.  Seems  good, 


too." 


After  breakfast  they  took  their  rifles  and 
set  out  to  look  for  sign.  Jim  went  west 
and  Sank  headed  toward  the  east.  At  night 
they  returned  to  the  cabin  in  fine  spirits. 
"Not  much  stirrin'  yet.  Too  fresh.  But  I 
found  some  marten  tracks,  and  there's  lots 
of  deer  an'  elk,"  said  Jim. 

"I  run  across  some  lynx  tracks,  an'  seen 
where  several  marten  had  crossed  that  big 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

gulch,  east  of  here,"  confided  Sank.  "I 
reckon  we'll  pick  up  a  pretty  good  ketch," 
and  he  began  to  hum  a  tune,  as  he  hung  up 
his  rifle.  "Saw  a  big  band  of  elk,  but  they 
was  too  far  from  camp  to  kill." 

"We'd  better  do  a  little  killin'  for  bait, 
one  of  these  days,"  said  Jim.  "I  killed  a 
buck  down  near  the  creek,  where  it  cuts  the 
trail,  this  mornin'.  I  fetched  the  hind 
quarters  in  with  me.  I  reckon  I'll  set  a  few 
traps  to-morrow." 

"Me,  too.  They  don't  do  no  good  in 
camp,"  said  Sank,  who  began  cooking  sup 
per. 

Jim  went  to  the  creek  for  water  and  then 
whittled  shavings  for  kindling  in  the  morn 
ing,  humming  a  bar  or  two  from  "Dixie,"  as 
the  keen  blade  of  his  knife  shaved  the  pitchy 
stick. 

After  supper,  they  lighted  their  pipes  and 
told  of  their  experiences  and  of  the  doings  of 
[  184] 


CRANKS 


friends  and  foes,  until  Jim  yawned.  "Well, 
Sank,  I  guess  I'll  turn  in.  I  reckon  I'll  set 
a  few  traps  in  that  big  cedar  swamp  below 
here,  in  the  mornin'.  You  shore  do  snore 
like  a  choked  bull,  but  it  don't  bother  me 


none." 


"Me,  snore?  I  didn't  never  know  it. 
Nobody  never  said  so.  I  reckon  I  must  git 
to  layin'  on  my  back.  But  snorin'  don't  keep 
me  awake.  If  it  did,  I'd  hev  to  move  camp, 
'cause  you  kin  hit  the  fastest  gait  I  ever 
heared  in  all  my  camp-kettle  career." 

"If  I  snore,  I  never  heared  of  it,"  said 
Jim.  "But  mebby  I  do.  This  ol'  bunk 
feels  good  to-night.  I'm  kinder  leg-weary," 
and  he  rolled  over  to  sleep. 

Sank  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out. 
"She's  snowin'  agin,  an'  it  looks  like  a  good 
one,  too.  Booo !  it's  cold.  I'll  put  that 
big  chunk  on  the  fire."  He  watched  the 
blaze  leap  upon  the  fresh  fuel,  and  then 

1 185] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

turned  in.  Almost  as  soon  as  he  had  tucked 
the  blankets  about  him,  Jim's  snoring  filled 
the  cabin.  "Oh,  no,  you  don't  snore,  ner 
nothin'.  Ye  sleep  jest  like  a  little  baby  with 
a  belly  full,  you  do,  Gosh !  I'd  hate  to  be 
like  that — snortin'  an'  snapping  an'  grittin' 
my  teeth.  But  go  to  it,  old  timer;  ye  won't 
keep  me  awake  none." 

When  Sank  opened  the  door  in  the  morn 
ing,  the  snow  was  piled  high,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  more  that  was  falling.  "Say! 
We  can't  move  to-day,  Jim,"  he  cried. 
"Biggest  fall  of  snow  I  ever  seen.  Must 
be  four  feet  deep  right  now  an'  still  it's 
comin'  down.  We'll  have  to  wait  for  it  to 
settle  some." 

Jim  was  kindling  the  fire.  "That's  bad," 
he  said.  "I  figured  on  gittin'  out  some  of 
them  traps  to-day." 

"Well,  if  they  was  set  now,  we'd  only  have 
to  dig  'em  out  an'  set  'em  agin.  It'll  take 
[186] 


CRANKS 


a  while  for  this  snow  to  settle  so's  a  man  can 
snowshoe  a  mile  a  week." 

They  tramped  a  trail  to  the  creek  and 
wallowed  a  way  to  the  woodpile,  and  still 
the  snow  kept  falling.  Each  morning  these 
trails  had  to  be  made  anew.  The  sky  was 
still  black  and  the  silence  of  the  wilderness  of 
snow  oppressed  them,  cooped  in  the  cabin 
as  they  were.  "  It's  a  week,  to-day,"  growled 
Sank.  "We're  snowed  in  like  a  couple  o' 
bears  in  a  cave.  Wish  we  hadn't  come  to 
this  dod-rotted  country.  Dog-on  fools,  both 
of  us." 

"No  use  growlin',"  said  Jim.  "Tain't 
my  fault  because  it  snows." 

"You  picked  the  country,  though." 

"I  did  not  pick  the  country.  You  said 
there'd  be  fur  here,  an'  I  agreed,  didn't  I?" 

"Well,  breakfast's  ready,"  growled  Sank. 

"Forgit  to  salt  the  meat?"  asked  Jim. 

"No.  I  didn't  forgit  nothin'." 
[  187] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"You  didn't  forgit  to  snore  last  night. 
I'll  swear  to  that,"  said  Jim,  reaching  for  the 
frying-pan. 

"Me,  snore?  I  set  up  in  bed  listenin'  to 
you  eat  'em  alive,  last  night.  Pass  the  salt." 

"Git  the  damned  salt,  if  ye  want  it.  Ye 
ain't  helpless  altogether,  be  ye  ?  Don't 
hev  to  put  on  no  airs,  here.  Why  don't 
ye  cook  yer  own  meals,  if  ye  don't  like  my 
cookin'  ?  I  kin  cook  to  suit  me.  I  did  it 
long  before  I  ever  knowed  you,  an'  now  ye're 
a-kickin'  all  the  damned  time." 

"That's  jest  what  I'll  do.  I'll  cook  my 
own  meals." 

"Well,  do  it,  an'  see  if  I  care." 

After  breakfast,  Jim  began  stringing  a 
rope  across  the  cabin,  whistling  as  he 
worked.  After  the  rope  was  secure,  he 
sewed  blankets  to  it  so  they  divided  the 
cabin  into  two  parts,  leaving  a  trifle  more 
than  half  toward  the  fireplace.  Then  he 
f  188  1 


CRANKS 


divided  the  grub  and  moved  half  of  the 
supplies  back  of  the  blanket  wall.  There 
was  no  conversation,  and  the  snow  was  still 
falling  while  he  worked. 

Sank  watched  him  but  offered  no  sugges 
tions.  Finally  he  heard  Jim  digging  a 
hole  in  the  ground  behind  the  partition.  He 
was  using  an  axe  in  the  digging  and  Sank 
wondered,  but  did  not  break  the  silence. 
When  Jim  went  to  the  creek  for  water, 
Sank  looked  behind  the  blanket.  Jim  was 
going  to  make  mud  with  which  to  build  a 
fireplace,  and  was  digging  a  hole  in  the 
cabin  to  get  the  dirt.  "Hu!"  muttered 
the  spy,  as  the  workman  returned  with  the 
water. 

Jim  toiled  all  day.  Having  first  chopped 
a  hole  in  the  roof  so  that  the  smoke  of  future 
fires  might  find  a  vent,  he  smeared  the  cabin 
logs,  in  the  corner  under  the  hole,  with  a 
deep  coating  of  mud.  But  it  was  night  be- 
[  189] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

fore  he  ventured  to  build  a  fire  in  the  make 
shift  fireplace.  Then  it  was  a  small,  weak 
blaze  that  furnished  barely  enough  heat  to 
cook  his  supper.  Smoke  came  over  the 
blankets,  hung  over  Sank's  head  lazily,  and 
then  was  finally  drawn  up  the  chimney  of 
the  old  fireplace,  but  Sank  did  not  mention 
it.  He  ignored  it,  or  seemed  to.  He  cooked 
and  ate  his  supper  alone.  Then  he  went  to 
bed.  But  Jim  didn't  retire.  He  began 
chopping  a  door  on  his  side  of  the  partition, 
and  each  blow  of  the  axe  shook  the  cabin, 
so  that  sleep  was  impossible. 

"It's  better'n  his  snorin',"  mumbled  Sank. 
"Damned  crank." 

It  was  late  when  the  chopper  finished,  but 
at  dawn  he  was  up  and  at  it  again.  Three 
days  of  torture  passed  before  the  new  quar 
ters  suited  Jim,  and  then  the  snow  had  settled 
somewhat.  He  took  his  traps  and  set  out, 
crossing  Sank's  trail  in  the  snow.  "Hu!" 

1 190] 


CRANKS 


he  said,  "the  crank's  out  already.  My,  but 
he's  a  rustler,  ain't  he  ?" 

When  night  came,  Jim  returned.  There 
was  fire  in  Sank's  part  of  the  cabin,  and  the 
smell  of  frying  meat  had  penetrated  to 
beyond  the  partition.  "Whew!"  said  Jim, 
audibly.  "Whew!  stink  a  coyote  away 
from  a  dead  hoss,"  and  he  left  the  door  of 
the  new  quarters  wide  open.  Then  he  built 
a  fire  against  the  logs  in  the  corner  where  he 
had  plastered  the  mud. 

"Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys, 

We'll  have  another  song. 
We'll  sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it, 
Fifty  thousand  strong." 

Sank  was  singing.  Sank  had  been  a  Union 
soldier,  and  Jim  and  his  people  had  sided 
with  the  South. 

"Noise,"  growled  Jim,  under  his  breath. 
"Nothin'  but  disturbance  from  dawn  to 
dark."  Then  he  rattled  his  tin  plates  noi- 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

sily,  and  let  a  frying-pan  fall  loudly.  The 
singing  ceased.  Profane  words  reached  Jim's 
ears  from  over  the  blankets.  "Rebel  crew," 
he  thought  he  heard,  as  he  set  his  coffee-pot 
on  the  fire,  in  a  quarrelsome  mood.  After 
supper  he  built  up  his  fire,  and  sat  before 
it.  He  could  hear  Sank  snoring  in  comfort. 
It  made  him  furious.  He  seized  his  rifle 
—BANG! 

The  snoring  stopped,  and  he  heard  Sank 
get  out  of  his  bunk.  "Dod-rot  a  moun 
tain  rat,"  growled  Jim,  measuring  his  voice 
that  Sank  might  hear  the  words.  "I'll  fix 
'em."  Then,  with  a  satisfied  smile,  he 
turned  in. 

When  the  morning  came,  the  weather  was 
extremely  cold.  All  night  long  the  logs  in 
the  cabin  had  popped  in  the  frost,  and  the 
trees  in  the  forest  checked  and  snapped  in 
the  bitter  blast  from  the  north.  Jim  built  a 
big  fire  in  the  corner,  and  went  to  the  creek 
I  192  ] 


CRANKS 


for  water.  The  wind  had  drifted  the  snow, 
and  the  trail  to  the  creek  was  full.  Sank 
had  not  been  out  yet,  so  Jim  had  to  tramp 
and  wallow  through  to  the  water.  It  took 
quite  a  time,  and  then,  after  reaching  the 
creek,  he  was  obliged  to  cut  through  the  ice 
in  order  to  get  the  water.  When  he  at 
last  reached  the  cabin,  the  logs  back  of 
the  mud  were  afire.  The  cabin  was  filled 
with  smoke,  but  the  neighbor  had  not  in 
terfered.  At  a  glance,  Jim  saw  the  danger 
and  threw  the  water  upon  the  blaze,  but  it 
was  not  enough  to  check  the  fire,  that  had 
gained  a  good  start  in  the  dry  tamarack  logs. 
Desperately  Jim  fought  the  fire  with  the  axe, 
but  with  a  roar,  the  flames  flared  up,  light 
ing  the  dark  cabin  and  filling  the  place  with 
sparks  that  floated  over  the  partition.  These 
brought  Sank's  tousled  head  through  the 
blanket  partition.  Jim  stared  at  him  a 
moment,  helplessly.  "I'm  burnin'  my  half 

[  193] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

of  this  damned  cabin.  You  kin  do  what  you 
please  with  yours,"  and  he  began  to  drag  his 
belongings  out  into  the  deep  snow. 


[  194  1 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 


sun's  first  rays  were  just  pricking 
their  way  through  the  breaks  of  the 
Missouri  River  on  a  keen  December  morning 
in  the  sixties  when  a  lone  Indian  crept  to  a 
hilltop  and  looked  down  at  the  stream.  His 
gaze  was  directed  to  a  heavy  grove  of  cotton- 
wood  trees  opposite  Cow  Island  from  which 
two  thin  streaks  of  smoke  were  rising  in  the 
still  morning  air.  There  was  a  jumble  of 
voices  —  white  men's  voices  —  in  the  grove, 
and  other  sounds  as  strange  to  the  wilder 
ness.  They  held  the  red  man's  attention; 
but  ever  and  anon  his  eyes  followed  the  thin 
trails  of  blue  smoke  that  ascended  in  straight 
lines  to  the  height  of  the  bluffs  along  the 
river,  where  both  bent  gracefully  downward 
and  went  lazily  away  on  the  gentle  eastern 
[195] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

breeze  that  was  stirring  over  the  plains  above 
the  stream. 

Down  by  the  river  a  steamboat  was  un 
loading  the  last  of  her  freight  consigned  to 
Fort  Benton,  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles 
up  the  river.  The  boat  had  been  hard 
aground  four  times  on  the  day  she  had  tied 
up  at  the  bank,  and  her  captain  had  given  up 
the  struggle.  He  could  go  no  farther.  The 
water  was  too  shallow.  The  cargo  from  St. 
Louis  must  be  unloaded  to  await  the  coming 
of  freighters  with  bull  teams,  who  would 
haul  it  to  its  destination.  The  season  was 
late.  Ice  had  already  formed  along  the  banks 
of  the  river,  and  where  the  eddies  quieted 
the  current  it  had  crept  far  out  toward  the 
centre  of  the  stream;  so  that  there  was  need 
of  haste  if  the  boat  would  reach  the  lower 
river  before  the  freeze-up. 

As  the  sunlight  touched  the  naked  tree- 
tops  in  the  grove,  the  trails  of  smoke  increased 

[196] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

in  volume,  a  whistle  disturbed  the  echoes 
with  its  blast,  a  bell  tinkled  sweetly,  and 
white  steam  spurted  from  the  exhaust  pipes 
to  mingle  with  the  smoke  from  the  steamer's 
stacks.  There  was  a  hissing,  churning  sound 
as  the  boat  backed  away  from  the  bank 
and  turned  her  nose  down  the  stream  toward 
St.  Louis. 

The  Indian  stood  erect  on  the  hilltop  as 
the  steamer  swung  around  the  bend  in  the 
river  below  Cow  Island,  her  paddle-wheel 
churning  the  water  into  white  foam  as  if 
she  were  anxious  to  escape  the  northern 
winter  whose  breath  was  in  the  air.  Little 
tinkling  noises  came  from  the  thin  ice  along 
the  shores  as  the  water,  violently  disturbed 
by  the  steamboat,  broke  it  in  pieces.  Now 
and  then  a  thin  sheet  would  be  thrown  up 
ward  and,  landing  upon  the  unbroken  ice, 
would  slide  over  the  surface  with  a  scraping 
sound  that  only  ice  can  make.  Often  these 

[  197] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

thin  sheets  would  skate  merrily  over  the  un 
disturbed  ice  and  land  unbroken  against  the 
bank,  where,  turned  sidewise  to  the  rising 
sun,  they  reflected  his  light  like  a  thousand 
flashing  mirrors. 

At  last  she  was  gone.  The  steamer  Spar 
row  Hawk  had  withdrawn  from  the  wilder 
ness  with  her  civilization.  And  the  Indian, 
descending  the  hill  a  little  way,  mounted  his 
pony  and  rode  away. 

Down  in  the  grove  by  the  river  two  white 
men  stood  silently  gazing  in  the  direction  the 
boat  had  taken.  The  water  had  quieted; 
the  broken  ice  still  reflected  the  sun's  light 
from  the  blue  sky;  but  for  long  after  the 
steamer  had  disappeared  the  men  stood  still 
and  followed  with  their  eyes  the  smoky  way 
of  the  Sparrow  Hawk  as  she  widened  the  dis 
tance  between  them  and  their  erstwhile 
mates. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha !"  laughed  one  of  the  men  at 

[  198] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

last.     His  breath  was  white  in  the  air,  and 
his  laugh  was  harsh  and  unnatural. 

His  startled  companion  faced  him. 
"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Van  ?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,  I  guess.  I  just  thought  what 
fools  we  are  to  have  volunteered  to  guard 
these  goods  till  the  bullwhackers  come  for 
them,  that's  all.  It  may  be  a  month,  and 
it  may  be  never.  I  should  have  known 
better.  Fve  been  up  the  river  before  now. 
The  Indians  are  bad,  and  if  there  is  anything 
I  am  afraid  of  it's  an  Indian." 

His  name  was  Van  Renssler,  and  he  spoke 
with  a  slight  foreign  accent.  Turning,  he 
surveyed  the  big  pile  of  bales  and  boxes  the 
boat  had  left.  "Not  a  drop  of  whiskey  or 
high  wines  in  all  of  that,"  he  said  disgustedly. 
"The  wood-hawks  will  come — once — and 
then  go  away.  If  we  had  whiskey,  we'd 
have  a  few  visitors,  but  without  it  we'll  have 
none  at  all.  Let's  fix  up  a  camp." 
[  199  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"There's  plenty  of  grub,  anyhow,"  said 
the  other,  as  he  unrolled  a  wall  tent.  "We 
can  make  a  comfortable  camp  here,  and 
wood's  handy." 

"Yes,  the  camp  will  be  comfortable  if 
only  the  Indians  don't  find  us,"  replied  Van 
Renssler,  cutting  a  cottonwood  pole.  "I 
saw  a  camp  of  wood-hawks  below  here  about 
fifteen  miles,  I  should  think.  They  might 
call  on  us,  but  unless  we  have  whiskey  they 
will  not  call  a  second  time.  I  know  them." 

"I  haven't  seen  an  Indian,  though.  Have 
you?"  asked  the  other  man. 

"No — not  one,"  said  Van.  "But  they're 
here,  or  close  to  here.  This  is  the  land  of  the 
Blackfeet.  Now!  up  she  comes."  And 
they  raised  the  wall  tent  and  pegged  it  to  the 
slightly  frozen  ground. 

"There  she  is,"  said  Van.  "Now  we'll 
build  a  fire  in  front  of  it,  and  then  one  of  us 
will  go  out  and  kill  some  meat.  Hey, 
pardner?" 

[  200  ] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

"I  guess  so,"  said  the  other,  whose  name 
was  Tom  Spencer.  "But  we  oughtn't  to 
do  much  shooting,  I  reckon.  You'd  better 
go.  Til  finish  making  the  camp  comforta 
ble." 

Van  set  out  in  search  of  meat,  and  Tom, 
left  alone,  began  to  make  the  tent  snug. 
Time  went  so  swiftly  that  the  sun  had  passed 
the  meridian  before  he  noticed  it.  He 
lighted  his  pipe  and  viewed  his  work  with 
satisfaction. 

"Haloooo!" 

Tom  started.  The  hail  came  from  over 
the  river,  and  he  seized  his  rifle  and  listened. 

"Haloo-oo,  over  there !" 

"Hello!"  answered  Tom.  "Make  a  raft 
and  come  over." 

"Got  any  whiskey  ?"  came  the  voice  from 
over  the  river. 

"Not  a  drop.  But  come  over  and  visit," 
called  Tom. 

He  heard  several  voices  in  conversation, 
[  201  1 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

and  then:  "Too  much  work  to  get  across," 
came  to  him  from  the  other  bank. 

Three  men — wood-hawks — now  came  down 
to  the  river's  edge  and  looked  across  at  the 
pile  of  freight  doubtingly.  Then,  waving 
farewell,  they  turned  away. 

The  shadows  were  long  when  at  last  Van 
returned  with  a  fat  antelope.  Tom  told  him 
about  the  wood-hawks. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Van.  "They're  the 
only  white  men  within  a  hundred  and  thirty 
miles,  but  they  despise  so  cheap  an  outfit, 
and  I  don't  blame  them.  It's  getting  colder. 
There's  plenty  of  game,  though.  I  saw 
lots  of  antelope  and  several  deer.  Let's 
skin  out  this  buck.  He's  fat  as  butter." 

The  sun  set  in  a  clear  sky.  Night  came 
on  with  its  big  round  moon,  and  in  the  beauty 
of  the  moonlight  among  the  leafless  trees, 
Van  and  Tom  forgot  their  loneliness.  They 
watched  the  shadows  creep  across  the  river 
[  202  1 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

where  the  ice  was  forming  anew,  and  heaped 
dry  wood  upon  the  fire,  until  Van  yawned. 
"I  suppose  we  ought  to  stand  guard,  but 
let's  take  a  chance  to-night  and  sleep,"  he 
said. 

"All  right,"  agreed  Tom.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  there's  an  Indian  near  here,  anyhow." 

There  was  an  abundance  of  blankets,  and 
the  bed  was  warm.  In  the  last  flicker  of 
firelight  both  men  turned  over  and  slept 
soundly. 

Next  morning  the  river  was  frozen  nearly 
across,  and  from  the  open  way  of  the  waters 
a  mist  was  rising  in  the  bright  morning  air. 
Van  went  to  the  river  for  water,  and  return 
ing,  filled  the  coffee-pot  and  put  it  on  the  fire. 

"Hey!  Tom,"  he  called.  "Get  up  and 
hear  the  little  birds  sing  their  praises." 

It  was  night  again  before  they  realized  it. 
In  the  firelight  they  told  their  stories  and, 
again  omitting  to  stand  guard,  went  to  bed. 

[203  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

But  each  day  was  like  the  others.  The 
stories  played  out.  Weeks  passed,  and  each 
night  the  wolves  howled  dismally.  Silence 
had  come  to  them  and  with  it  greater  loneli 
ness  settled  upon  the  camp  at  Cow  Island. 
Days  and  even  nights  passed  with  scarcely  a 
spoken  word  between  them. 

"I  don't  believe  anybody  wants  this 
damned  truck,"  growled  Tom,  as  he  surveyed 
the  pile  in  the  growing  gloom  of  night. 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Van.  "Most  likely 
nobody  knows  it's  here.  Give  me  that  list 
and  let  me  look  it  over.'5 

"Here  it  is,"  and  Tom  handed  his  partner 
a  half-dozen  sheets  of  paper.  "I'm  going 
to  turn  in,"  he  added,  as  Van  took  the 
papers. 

Van  threw  wood  on  the  fire  and  seated 
himself  before  it  with  the  list  of  freight  in 
his  hands. 

The  river  had  frozen  solid.  Along  the 
[  204  ] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

banks  the  ice  was  smooth  and  clear,  but  out 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream  where  the 
swifter  water  interfered  with  the  work  of 
the  frost  it  was  bulged  and  rough.  No 
snow  had  fallen,  but  the  weather  had  steadily 
grown  colder;  and  Van  shivered  as  finally 
he  folded  the  sheets  of  paper  with  a  sigh. 
Throwing  a  last  glance  at  the  dark  pile  of 
freight,  he  followed  Tom  into  the  tent  and 
slept. 

When  morning  came,  Van  had  the  fire 
started  and  was  prowling  among  the  boxes, 
which  were  consigned  to  hardware  dealers 
at  Fort  Benton,  Helena,  and  Virginia  City. 

"What  the  dickens  are  you  looking  for, 
Van  ? "  called  Tom  from  the  tent. 

"Skates/'  growled  Van.  "If  I  had  a  pair 
of  skates  I'd  go  to  Fort  Benton  and  get  us 
some  whiskey.  It's  only  four  more  days  till 
Christmas;  but  there  ain't  no  skates  in  the 
hardware  boxes.  It's  a  hoodoo  cargo — this  is." 
[  205  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

Tom  came  out  and  stirred  the  fire  and 
spread  his  hands  before  it.  "No,  I  don't 
reckon  there  are  any  skates,"  he  said.  "But 
it  can't  be  long  now  until  somebody  comes 
for  the  freight." 

"I've  quit  guessing,"  muttered  Van,  as 
he  tugged  at  a  heavy  case  beneath  several 
Jbales  and  boxes. 

Suddenly  the  pile  overturned  with  a  crash, 
and  a  crate  of  scythe  blades  broke  open, 
scattering  a  dozen  blades  on  the  ground. 
Van  stooped,  picked  up  one  of  them,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  studying  the  long  sharp 
edge  and  its  blunt  back. 

"Say,  Tom!"  he  cried.  "I'm  going  to 
make  a  pair  of  skates  out  of  this  scythe 
blade ! "  And  he  took  it  to  the  tent. 

He  gathered  a  file,  a  hammer,  and  a  cold 
chisel,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  fire  cut  the 
blade  into  proper  lengths.  Then  he  dulled 
the  sharp  edges,  punched  two  holes  in  each 

[206] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

piece,  and  drove  them  into  two  pieces  of 
dry  cottonwood  two  inches  thick,  fastening 
them  in  place  by  driving  nails  into  the  wood 
so  that  they  would  intersect  the  holes  in  the 
steel.  With  the  file  he  squared  the  blunt 
edges;  and  the  bits  of  scythe  blade  were  skate 
runners. 

But  it  was  after  noon  before  Van  succeeded 
in  fastening  them  to  his  boots. 

Then,  with  bread  and  meat  and  a  file  in 
his  pockets,  he  hobbled  to  the  river,  aided 
by  Tom,  and  set  off  up  the  stream. 

"They're  fine!"  he  called  as  he  skated 
away. 

Tom  watched  him  turn  the  bend  above 
camp.  Then  he  went  back  and  put  a  camp- 
kettle  of  beans  over  the  fire. 

Van,  keeping  near  to  the  river  bank,  sped 
on  toward  Fort  Benton.  Mile  upon  mile 
through  the  wilderness  of  bad-land  stretches 
and  cottonwood  groves  he  kept  his  course, 

[207] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

the  bite  of  the  winter  air  stinging  his  face 
as  bend  after  bend  in  the  crooked  stream  he 
rounded  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind.  No 
sound  came  to  him  save  the  szzt — szzt  of  his 
skates.  Once,  far  ahead,  he  saw  a  pack  of 
wolves  crossing  the  river;  and  twice  he  saw 
deer  and  antelope  near  the  frozen  stream; 
but  there  was  no  camp  of  wood-hawks  or 
other  human  beings  to  be  seen. 

His  spirits  were  high.  He  was  a  splendid 
skater  and  a  man  of  exceptional  strength  and 
endurance.  As  he  flew  past,  his  eyes  swept 
every  grove,  but  his  anxiety  waned  as  each 
was  left  behind. 

The  sun  was  low  and  the  breeze  was  stiffen 
ing  when  he  came  to  a  long  stretch  of  treeless 
bottom-land.  He  crossed  the  river  to  avail 
himself  of  the  shelter  of  the  opposite  bank, 
which  was  higher,  for  the  wind  here  was 
strong.  Having  gained  the  other  side,  he 
was  relieved  of  the  wind's  pressure  and  in- 
f  208  1 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

creased  his  speed.  He  now  saw,  far  beyond, 
a  heavy  grove  of  cottonwoods  on  a  high-cut 
bank  where  the  stream  made  a  sharp  turn. 
In  a  little  time  he  had  reached  it  and 
rounded  the  bend.  The  wind  was  strong  at 
his  back.  It  was  a  welcome  help,  for  the 
bend  was  long. 

But  suddenly  he  smelled  smoke — the 
smoke  of  a  cottonwood  fire.  It  could  mean 
but  one  thing.  Almost  as  soon  as  his  nose 
had  warned  him,  he  saw  the  tops  of  a  dozen 
lodges  among  the  trees  above  him.  His 
heart  bounded  with  fear.  Bending  low,  he 
sought  to  pass  them  unnoticed  in  the  shadow 
of  the  bank. 

But  a  dog  howled  in  the  Indian  camp. 
Then  he  heard  the  hoofbeats  of  a  pony  and 
looked  over  his  shoulder.  A  rider  was  going 
for  the  pony  band.  There  was  a  scurrying 
in  the  camp,  and  the  voices  of  men  were 
mingled  with  the  wolfish  howl  of  dogs. 
[  209  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

They  would  chase  and  kill  him.  Faster 
and  faster  his  skates  met  the  ice.  Swifter 
and  swifter  he  flew  over  the  river's  surface 
with  both  fear  and  the  wind  lending  strength 
and  speed  to  his  strokes.  He  was  nearly 
to  another  bend  when  he  again  looked  be 
hind.  They  were  coming! — fifty  or  more, 
their  ponies  racing  over  the  frozen  ground  to 
cut  him  off  at  the  bend. 

He  must  beat  them.  Perhaps  the  river 
would  turn  to  his  advantage  if  only  he  could 
gain  the  next  stretch  ahead  of  the  Indians. 
Straining  every  muscle  in  his  body,  he 
rounded  the  bend.  The  wind  was  nearly 
dead  ahead  now.  It  almost  smothered  him 
in  its  strength.  But  it  was  a  race  for  life, 
and  with  his  heart  pounding  loudly  he  bent 
lower  and  struggled  grimly  toward  the  next 
turn.  They  were  coming.  They  were  gain 
ing.  If  only  he  could  make  the  bend  before 
they  did,  he  might  have  a  chance.  A  rifle- 

[210] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

ball  cut  the  ice  in  front  of  him  and  went 
whining  away  into  the  bank.  Then  another 
splintered  the  glare  ice  behind  him  and  he 
felt  the  spatter  of  ice  on  his  hot  neck.  He 
was  straining  every  nerve.  His  temples 
throbbed  with  the  pressure  of  blood,  and  per 
spiration  dripped  from  his  face. 

A  wild  yell  sent  a  thrill  through  him.  He 
had  rounded  the  bend — made  it,  ahead  of 
the  wild  riders.  But  even  as  he  sensed  his 
victory,  his  heart  sank,  for  the  bend  was  in 
the  Indians'  favor.  They  were  yet  no 
where  in  sight.  Madly  he  raced  for  the 
next  turn  in  the  river — made  it;  and  there 
they  were.  Fifty  Indians  on  the  ice  before 
him. 

Desperately  he  tried  to  stop,  ran  into  the 
bank,  and  fell,  his  head  striking  the  ice 
violently.  A  streak  of  flame  and  a  cracking 
sound  came  to  him,  and  then  he  knew  noth 
ing. 

[211    ]. 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

Softly  the  moccasined  feet  sped  toward 
him.  An  old  warrior  with  an  ugly  scar  on 
his  wrinkled  face  squatted  near  the  prostrate 
white  man's  feet  and  murmured.  As  the 
rest  pressed  closer,  the  old  fellow  turned  his 
face  toward  the  curious  group,  his  puzzled 
expression  heightened  by  the  sunken  lids 
of  a  sightless  eye.  There  were  soft-spoken 
words  among  the  others,  heavy  with  wonder. 
The  old  man  gingerly  touched  the  runners 
of  the  skates.  "Tst — tst — tst.  Ahn-n-n-n- 
n!"  he  said,  covering  his  thin-lipped  mouth 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Others  squatted 
beside  him,  and  one  by  one  they  applied 
their  fingers  to  the  skates  and  murmured. 

At  last  Van  opened  his  eyes.  The  group 
fell  back,  leaving  the  old  man  and  Van  in 
the  centre  of  a  circle.  The  white  man's  eye 
lids  fluttered  a  moment  and  then  closed. 
The  old  fellow  bent  over  him  with  a  serious 
look.  Again  Van  opened  his  eyes,  and,  at 

[    212] 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

last  conscious  of  his  situation,  tried  to 
regain  his  feet,  but  staggered  and  fell.  Then 
he  sat  up  and  saw  the  circle  of  painted  faces 
about  him. 

The  old  warrior  with  the  scarred  face 
motioned  to  the  others  and  they  moved 
back,  forming  an  immense  circle  on  the  ice. 
Van  got  to  his  feet.  And  then  the  old  man 
began  to  slide  his  moccasins  over  the  ice  in 
imitation  of  the  skater's  strokes,  at  the  same 
time  warning  him  not  to  try  to  break  through 
the  circle. 

Van  understood  and  began  to  skate  for 
their  amusement.  He  backed  and  twisted, 
whirled  and  jumped,  and  cut  figure  eights  and 
pigeonwings.  The  Indians  were  amazed.  As 
new  groups  arrived,  the  old  fellow  as  mas 
ter  of  ceremonies  would  induce  Van  to  sit 
down  while,  squatting  at  the  performer's 
feet,  each  newcomer  touched  the  skate 
runners  with  his  fingers. 
[  213  ] 


ON  A  PASSING  FRONTIER 

"Tst-tst-tst.  Ahn-n-n-n  !"  came  from  be 
hind  the  palms  that  covered  their  mouths. 

Then,  satisfied,  the  old  fellow  would  bid 
Van  skate  again. 

A  hundred  Indians  had  gathered  and  with 
rifles  in  the  hollow  of  their  arms  stood  watch 
ing  his  antics.  Fatigue  was  weakening  him. 
His  mind  was  tortured  with  thoughts  of  his 
fate.  And  Tom,  alone  in  the  camp  at  Cow 
Island — what  would  become  of  him  ? 

Suddenly,  at  a  wave  of  the  old  man's  hand, 
the  circle  parted  up  the  stream. 

"Ho!"  cried  he  of  the  scarred  face.  And 
Van  was  free. 


214] 


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N9   589790 

Linderman,   F.B. 
On  a  passing 
frontier. 


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1535 

05 


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